


Hide and Seek

by OughtaKnowBetter



Category: NCIS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-20
Updated: 2010-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OughtaKnowBetter/pseuds/OughtaKnowBetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dead naval officer in the woods and a piece of technology is missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hide and Seek

The figure was almost impossible to see, dipping and weaving in the dim light. Gibbs sighted on the running body, feeling more than see Ziva take up the same stance. This was vital; the suspect _couldn't_ be allowed to escape. He exhaled, the gun settling onto the target, squeezing the trigger. Ziva's own shot went off at the same instant—maybe a micro-second sooner or later, neither one would be able to say for certain—and the figure jerked and stumbled, falling to the ground.

No choice. No better options—the new technology couldn't be allowed to fall into foreign hands. National Security depended on it.

 _Secure the suspect._ Ziva dashed ahead, taking advantage of knees that hadn't been through two wars. She kicked the rock away from the suspect's bare hand, squatting to grab hold of the figure, Gibbs behind her with his handgun trained on the suspect. Even in the dim light of dusk they could see the blood leaking out from a gut wound. The other bullet had hit the shoulder.

"Who are you?" Gibbs demanded harshly.

Ziva ripped the mask off of the suspect. Hazel eyes, pain-filled and bewildered, looked up at Gibbs.

The 'suspect' coughed, blood springing to his lips. "If you wanted to fire me, boss, you could have just told me…"

The eyes closed.

Gibbs went cold, but it didn't slow him down. "I need an ambulance over here!"

* * *

 _Two days earlier:_

There were times for leaping out of a vehicle, and there were many more times when haste was wasted effort. This was one of the 'wasted effort' times. Leroy Jethro Gibbs, NCIS, pulled his car to a sedate halt outside of the crime scene, taking the time to turn off the fan to the vents before exiting the vehicle. He took a deep breath of clean forest air before turning his attention to his job. The dead body wasn't going anywhere, and a man needed to take his moments when and where he could squeeze them in. There were few enough of them, and the victim was no longer in a position to have any more.

Gibbs would have to enjoy it for him. Trees were all around, enough to hide the details from the camera bugs outside the yellow crime scene tape, with smaller bushes protecting the gory bits from those who insisted that their readers—most of whom had only limited literacy—had a right to know. The small birds had deserted the area, with only a couple several yards away, trying to tell the mob of humans that they were invading prime nesting area and couldn't the humans _please_ go away? Anything ground bound and larger than a mole had already fled. Even the streams of morning sunlight were having a tough time illuminating the scene through the leafy branches. Gibbs pushed his way through the brush.

Time to get started. Gibbs descended on the first team member he could find. "DiNozzo!" he bellowed. "What've we got?"

"Got a dead body, boss—"

"I can see that, DiNozzo. What I need are details."

"Right." Tony DiNozzo automatically glanced at the note pad in his hand. "Lieutenant Commander Laurence Rickover, 'Ricky' to his friends of whom he had a few, assigned to the Heisenberg Research Facility."

"I assume that the Heisenberg Research Facility is the large factory type building that I see a couple of miles away."

"Yes, boss, it is," DiNozzo agreed. "Commander Rickover—"

"Any relationship to _the_ Rickover, DiNozzo?"

"None that I'm aware of, boss. You want me to check?"

"Don't bother," Gibbs grunted. "If he is, someone'll come looking for me soon enough. What else have you got?"

DiNozzo consulted his pad one more time. "Commander Rickover was found at approximately eight this morning, by his wife, Elaine Rickover, and the rest of the coven."

Gibbs swung around. "Did you say coven, DiNozzo?"

"Yes, boss, I did. Coven. As in: witches and warlocks. Communing with Satan. Having a satanic ritual out here in the woods."

Gibbs looked around. The grove looked entirely too pleasant to be of any interest to Satan or any of his minions. "His wife found him. I suppose the rest of the 'coven' corroborates this?"

"They do, all six of 'em. They—"

"I thought there was supposed to be thirteen."

"I guess some had the night off from chanting backwards. I've got names, boss, and addresses. None of 'em are trying to do the Witches of Eastwick thing at the moment."

Raise of the eyebrows. "'Witches of Eastwick', DiNozzo?"

Tony grinned. "Yeah. You know: Jack Nicholson, Cher, Michelle Pfeiffer. Susan Sarandon?" he added, at Gibbs' blank look.

"It was much better in English," Ziva announced, coming up to join the pair. "What?" she complained, at Tony's surprised look. "The concepts don't translate quite perfectly into Hebrew. An excellent movie," she pronounced it, and turned to the case at hand. "I have spoken with the wife, Gibbs. She claims that she was with her group all night, and that they were holding their mid-summer festivals. The rest support her claim. They completed their gathering shortly after sunrise—welcoming the sun, I believe is how Mrs. Rickover put it—cleaned up the site, and found Commander Rickover's body as they were leaving the site to go to their vehicles."

"You don't believe her." Gibbs did a good job of reading Ziva's body language.

"I do not. Mrs. Rickover states that her marriage is good, that she is a faithful navy wife who waits patiently for her husband to return from his various tours of duty. She tells me that she has been pleased with his current assignment, that of liaison to the Heisenberg Research group, because it means regular hours and a husband who is home every night. There are no children of this union," Ziva added.

"Ziva, just because two people don't have kids yet, doesn't mean they don't love each other," Tony said.

"She could not meet my eyes," Ziva returned. "Gibbs, she is hiding something." She cast a dark look back at the seven cult members. "They all are. We should bring them in and interrogate them."

Gibbs shrugged. "It's a possibility. What does the crime scene tell us?"

That was McGee's cue. He ambled up, camera in hand, just in time to hear Gibbs' question. "Commander Rickover was found at approximately eight in the morning—"

"Already know that, McGee. Tell me something that I don't know."

McGee accepted the hurry up. "Commander Rickover has three parallel slash wounds to the abdomen. Ducky is with him right now, and says that they'll have the body back to the morgue and ready to autopsy in another hour or two. Preliminary cause of death: unknown."

"Unknown?" That made Gibbs raise his eyebrows. "He's got three slashes to the gut, and Ducky doesn't know what killed the man?"

"That's right, Jethro." Ducky himself entered the discussion, pulling off his gloves as he walked over to the group. "The three wounds to the abdomen are consistent with a large animal attack; a bear, perhaps, or even a tiger. Measurements will have to be taken to attempt to identify the potential culprits."

"Ducky, tigers don't live in the woods of Virginia."

"Quite so, Jethro. However, I am not satisfied with the condition of these wounds. A normal attack by an animal of impressive size would elicit a large quantity of blood, hemorrhaging from the wound or wounds, prior to death. I see none of that here. I surmise that the wounds may have been inflicted post-mortem."

"Really?" McGee was impressed. "You mean, he was dead before he got here?"

"I mean nothing of the sort, Timothy, only that the three slash marks on Commander Rickover's body were likely not the cause of death. I will know more after the autopsy." Ducky slapped his hands together to shake off the dust. "Mr. Palmer and I will get to it immediately."

"Good," Gibbs grunted. "Time of death?"

"Somewhat earlier, Jethro. I should say five in the morning, give or take forty minutes." Dr. Mallard held up his hand to forestall any further questions. "I will have more information for you later this afternoon, Agent Gibbs. Until then, I bid you adieu." He took his leave of them, heading for the victim to supervise the removal of the remains.

Gibbs turned to the rest of his team. "McGee—"

"Right, boss. Look up financial records, insurance policies. See if there was any reason for anyone—such as his wife—to want Commander Rickover dead."

Gibbs didn't even blink. "DiNozzo—"

"On it. Investigate the cult. What was Commander Rickover doing out here? Spying on his wife? Or just taking a stroll through the forest at four AM when he met a bear?" DiNozzo escaped before Gibbs could assign anything else.

Gibbs turned to the last member of his team. "Ziva?

"You are leaving me to research the least likely of suspects, Gibbs: his co-workers," Ziva complained, "which is the research facility, filled with scientists and egg-tails who are doubtless unable to find their own shoes with their shoelaces tied."

Gibbs blinked, trying to decipher the Mossad agent's last statement. He gave up, and inserted his own directive. "Actually, I was going to suggest that you accompany me while I inform his commanding officer of Commander Rickover's untimely demise."

"Oh." Ziva brightened. "Then I don't have to wrench scientists away from their research and listen to them babble and whine and tell me that they know everything about nothing?"

Gibbs shrugged, and smiled. "That, Ziva, comes later."

* * *

No time like the present. Tony DiNozzo approached the cult group. There were five women, and two men, all dressed in long flowing robes of white that were currently sprinkled with leaves and dirt from their night in the forest. All had their hair unbound, and two still had some dead foliage entwined within, leftover from whatever fun they had had the night before. Some cleaning up had occurred, but each one would have been intending to make a stop at home for a thorough shower before heading off to a day at the office.

That was assuming that the office was where each one intended to go, and that, DiNozzo decided, was entirely too big an assumption. None looked as though corporate life was a career aspiration. Working in a tea leaf factory would likely come closer. Each one had long hair, even the men. Tony caught sight of the edges of tattoos on several shoulders, most covered by the long robes that they wore. He wondered idly if they wore normal clothes under the robes and decided that they didn't. _Not those particular curves,_ he thought to himself. _Not the way those robes are clinging to them…_

He coughed, to get their attention. "Special Agent DiNozzo," he introduced himself. The first name could wait; none of these looked as though he wanted their phone numbers in anything but the professional sense, despite the looks that two women—and one of the men!—was giving to him. "I need to ask you all some questions."

"We have already given you all the information that we have," one of the women challenged. "Moonbeam found her husband like that. Can't you leave us alone in our grief?"

 _Moonbeam? Oh, right. The wife._ DiNozzo offered a tight little smile. "I'm sorry, but I can't. The death of a naval officer attached to a military research facility such as the Heisenberg mandates an investigation." He put out the olive branch. "If you'll help me, I'll try to make this as painless as possible."

"It's already painful," the woman told him.

"So let's not poke at it any more than we have to," DiNozzo said, trying to ooze both sympathy and firmness at the same time. "Who found Commander Rickover?"

"I did." It was the woman who had challenged him in the first place.

Somehow, Tony wasn't surprised. "And you are—?"

"Dawnwind."

 _Oh, gawd._ "Your name for legal purposes? The one on your driver's license?"

She was expecting that question, and didn't flinch. "Melanie Terwilliger."

Tony wrote it down. "All right, Ms. Terwilliger—"

"Dawnwind." Quietly. Firmly.

This wasn't an important piece of data. Tony let her have her little victory. "Ms. Dawnwind. You stated earlier that you found him at approximately eight this morning."

"That's right."

"What was your purpose for being out here? You indicated that you and your group have been out here all night."

"That's right. Last night was one of our most important celebrations of the Mother Goddess. We are her devoted disciples, dedicated to showing mankind the way back to happiness—"

"Yes, I understand that," Tony interrupted. "Were you celebrating all night without stopping, or did you or any of your group celebrate by sleeping out here?"

Dawnwind flashed him a look of dislike. "We were giving thanks all night long."

"Any alcohol involved in your celebration?"

Another glare. "We do not drink. That is a perversion of the fruits of the vine."

 _Not in my book. Nothing like a glass of a mature pinot noir, slowly sipped across the table from a luscious set of bedroom eyes…_ Tony wrenched his thoughts back to the job. "Did anyone leave the group at any time?"

"No one."

Tony didn't miss the four sets of eyes that darted sideways. He marked them for future reference; some individual attention, perhaps. "Not even to answer the call of nature?"

'Dawnwind' glared at him.

Tony let it go. "So you were all up all night long. Did you or anyone else hear anything?"

"We heard the call of the wind, the joy—"

"Anything unusual?" Tony interrupted. This was getting tiresome. "Perhaps something large in the woods? See any bears, anything like that?"

This time Dawnwind didn't glare. She merely looked thoughtful, and Tony stifled a sigh of relief.

"I may have seen a bear," she allowed. "I saw a dark shadow, toward the rising of the Sun."

Tony had no idea how she managed to insert the capital 'S' on sun in her voice, but dutifully copied the capital onto his notepad. It seemed appropriate. "And that would be at what time?"

"The rising of the sun," Dawnwind replied scornfully.

 _Right. Google the time of today's sunrise, estimate an hour before hand. Much easier than fighting with this chick._ "Anything else? Anyone else see this bear?"

"I did," one of the men volunteered.

 _Of course. The one that's making eyes at me. It had to be._ "You're corroborating Ms. Dawnwind's story?"

"That's right," he said, then paused. "I thought it was a little small to be a bear."

"Maybe a cub?"

"Maybe." The man sounded doubtful. "Kind of tall for a cub. And skinny."

"Could it have been a man?"

"I suppose. Probably not. This is private property."

"It is?" That surprised DiNozzo. The research facility was less than a mile away. Places like this tended to have substantial acreage between them and the outside world.

"That's right," Dawnwind told him, again offering a challenge. "This is private property. We own it. _I_ own it, on behalf of our circle. You're trespassing."

"Investigating a possible homicide, ma'am, with national security implications," DiNozzo corrected.

Dawnwind went on. "And it was clearly a bear. I saw the outline. It couldn't have been anyone human."

Not worth the effort to canvas the entire group. "Anything else?"

"When are you leaving?" Dawnwind, AKA Melanie Terwilliger, demanded to know. "As a disciple of the Circle of the Wood Sprites, it is my duty to cleanse this area of footprints, to leave the Goddess in her pristine state—"

Tiresome. Clearly tiresome. "I'm sorry, ma'am," Tony lied. He wasn't sorry at all, "but this is a crime scene. This area will be off-limits to all personnel until further notice. You can all leave now, but we will need you to all remain in town."

"But I have a meeting in New York," one man cried. It was the one that had been visually undressing Tony with his eyes. "I'm meeting with a video game developer, who wants to purchase the rights to the video game that I've created."

DiNozzo decided on the spot to give him a waiver for good behavior—and to get him away from Tony's vicinity. The man truly looked flaky enough to be a computer geek stuck in adolescence. "Give your name and the pertinent data to Agent McGee," he directed. _There. Serves Probie right. They'll probably bond._

Better him than me.

* * *

The Heisenberg Research Facility was everything that Gibbs thought that it would be: a large square brick building, several stories tall, connected to three other large, square brick buildings by short rectangular brick enclosed walkways. The windows were fairly small, easier to prevent stray sniper bullets from making their way inside. The bottom two layers of windows were barred. The grounds around the area, what hadn't been paved over for parking, was magnificently manicured, and Gibbs wondered idly if Heisenberg had found some Navy corpsman with a landscaping background to direct that part of the think tank.

A think tank was very clearly what the Heisenberg was. Gibbs had been in enough of them to recognize the type, the curious juxtaposition of ultra-security with uber-brains wandering about and requiring re-direction into their various ivory towers. NCIS badges weren't enough to permit Agent Gibbs and Officer David into the facility; their ID's and likenesses got run through a computer database until the lieutenant, junior grade, in charge of the front desk for the day was satisfied that they weren't foreign terrorists trying to sneak in with a nuclear missile tucked in among the coins in Gibbs' pocket. Officer David in particular came in for her share of scrutiny.

It took too much time. Gibbs leaned on the desk, using his height to lean over the lieutenant. "Are we finished here?"

Ziva, given the opportunity, could have informed the young lieutenant (JG) that that particular note in Gibbs' voice indicated that dire consequences would occur if the task were not completed within the next few seconds. Fortunately for the facility, either the lieutenant or the computers that he was working on understood the need for haste, for the computer chirped submissively.

The lieutenant handed over two plastic badges. "Wear these at all times, sir, ma'am," he instructed. "Now, if you'll just step through our metal detector?"

Enough. Gibbs sighed. "Lieutenant," he said with obvious patience, "both Officer David and I are carrying weapons, and we intend to keep them exactly where they are. Now, either let us through, or call down whoever runs this place."

"Sir—"

" _Now,_ lieutenant." Whip crack.

The lieutenant (JG) caved. "Yes, sir. Calling, sir."

It took far less time, Gibbs noted, and not only one but two upper-level flunkies arrived in far less time than the computer had taken to clear the two NCIS agents. Fine with him; as long as he got to the top and didn't take all day to do it.

"Special Agent Gibbs," the military one greeted them. "Officer David. I'm Captain Beck, with Naval Operations. This is Dr. Petra Dovely, head of Project Three Research. What's this about?"

Gibbs took the lead. "Captain, we found a dead body on some nearby property."

Dr. Dovely gave an exasperated snort. "Are those crazies at it again? I suppose they're blaming us for this. How did we do it this time? Ray guns from the UFO at Area 51?"

Gibbs stayed polite. "No, ma'am. Our medical examiner is still determining the cause of death." He glanced around for effect; he already knew that the lieutenant and all six of the enlisted types were listening intently. Gossip had value, and the security people knew it. "Is there somewhere that we can talk?"

"Certainly, Agent Gibbs," Beck said, riding roughshod over Dovely's muttered "I've got better things to do." Beck held out a welcoming arm. "Right this way."

The room that Beck brought them to was a well-furnished small conference room. Furnished well enough, Gibbs thought, to pay for his pension for the next decade and then some. Didn't matter; they were there on business. Gibbs waited until they were all seated and then held out a picture of the dead man; a clean one with the eyes closed and very little blood showing. "Recognize him?" _The answer had better be yes._

It was. Dr. Dovely sucked her breath in, going pale. Gibbs was suddenly very glad that he'd waited for everyone to sit down. He'd never dealt well with fainting females. Beck was more in control. The captain merely tightened his lips, already thinking ahead to what this meant for the facility that he was in charge of. "Yes. Yes, I do," he told Gibbs. "That's Commander Ricky Rickover, my liaison officer for Project Three. Dr. Dovely's project." He gave himself a moment. "How did it happen?"

"My M.E. will be performing the autopsy shortly."

"Who did it?"

Already assuming that it was murder, Gibbs noted. "That sounds as though you have reason to believe foul play, captain."

Gibbs could see the play of thoughts behind the steel gray eyes, wondering how much to tell NCIS. "Agent Gibbs, we are sitting in one of America's finest think tanks. Any one of our enemies would pay several fortunes to get the technology that is being developed on these premises; we've foiled several attempts already over the past three years alone." Beck gave a brief, humorless smile. "My job is to be paranoid, Agent Gibbs. What have you got?"

As if Gibbs would simply hand over the case. Gibbs' return smile was just as humorless. "A dead body, Captain Beck, that belonged to your liaison officer. Who would want him dead?"

"He was—" Beck stopped himself. A new thought intruded. "Actually, no one."

"No one?"

Beck lifted his shoulders. "Commander Rickover was in charge of our projects; Dr. Dovely is the senior researcher, reporting to him. Commander Rickover was well-liked by his subordinates, had no enemies that I am aware of."

"Could he have been killed over the research?"

"Possibly, but unlikely." That was the point that Beck was getting to. "As I said, Commander Rickover was in charge, but he was not a scientist. He was not developing the science or the technology, merely guiding it to the most useful endpoint from the view of the military. He simply didn't have enough knowledge to make him a valuable target. Frankly, Dr. Dovely here would be of far greater use to an enemy program looking to design the same technology."

Gibbs focused on Petra Dovely. Mid-thirties, he decided, and probably single. No ring on the finger and a driven, hungry look in her eye that suggested that bothering with a significant other would get in her way. The hair was short; attractively styled but clearly looking for a minimum of fuss and bother. That didn't upset Gibbs; fuss and bother did. She looked soft—slender, but from too much rabbit food rather than exercise. Working out took time away from research. A lettuce sandwich could be wolfed down in between feeding samples into whatever analysis machine they went into. "That true?"

Dovely shrugged. "Probably. That's what they tell me."

"And who are 'they'?"

Odd smile. She gestured with her chin. "Captain Beck. Commander Rickover. Others."

Not going anywhere with that line of inquiry.

Ziva rescued the discussion. "What are you working on?"

Silence. Beck and Dovely exchanged glances.

Beck was elected. "I'm sorry, Officer David. The work that we're doing here is classified. Eyes only."

Gibbs leaned back in his chair. "Did you miss the part of the identification process that said we're both cleared, Captain Beck? Fill us in."

"Agent Gibbs—"

"We both know that I can call my boss, who will call your boss's boss, who will call your boss, who will call you. I'd rather not bother my boss. She's occasionally temperamental, and she won't go after me. She'll go after the person responsible for disturbing her other priorities to straighten out people with an inflated sense of their own worth. Do I make myself clear, Captain Beck?"

Beck considered his options, and liked none of them. He settled on the least noxious. "What I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this facility, Agent Gibbs, Officer David."

"I'll be informing the rest of my team, Captain Beck."

Beck started to object, then thought better of it. It was going to happen whether he liked it or not, and arguing right now would get him nowhere. "If the word gets out, Special Agent Gibbs…"

"If the word gets out, it won't be because of any of mine," Gibbs responded. "Can we get on with this? What is this Project Three that Commander Rickover was overseeing?"

Beck gestured to Dr. Dovely. "Doctor?"

The scientist was more forthcoming. "Stealth technology, on an individual scale. More and more our armed forces are being required to conduct covert operations, go to places where being seen is a drawback. In battle, the ability to move undetected with the naked eye will give our fighting men and women the advantage that they so desperately need. This technology is almost reality."

"We have stealth technology, and have had for several decades," Ziva said. "We have eye in the sky satellites. We have planes capable of avoiding radar."

"This is different," Dovely told her. "This technology will allow a single soldier to enter a building unseen, do the task, and leave undetected. This is stealth designed for the individual. Think of it as a technological ninja, Officer David." She couldn't help the smile; clearly Petra Dovely was proud of her accomplishment. "Would you like to see it?"

"No," said Beck.

"Yes," said Ziva, at the exact moment.

Beck sighed. He didn't roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. "All right. You already know this much." He rose to his feet. "Come with me."

He led them to a large room that had been decked out to look like a large office space. Desks littered the floor with chairs tucked underneath them. There were a couple of file cabinets dotting the edges of the room, along with a small safe in one corner. A large picture frame with a stick drawing of a treasure chest hung on the wall at one end. There were no windows.

There were, however, four large soldiers, all clad in fatigues. Gibbs was not a small man, yet these men made him look average. Each carried a handgun in a holster at their waist that might have qualified as a missile launcher if Gibbs hadn't known better. A long and deadly knife was tucked behind it and, from the looks of things, Gibbs wouldn't have been surprised if there were a number of other hand weapons secreted on their persons.

That wasn't all that they had. Clearly these men had trained daily and hard: muscles rippled under toughened skin and the boots that they wore showed evidence of travel over hard ground for many miles. These were not weekend warriors. These were marines to be used when it was important to get the job done. They may have had weapons, but they were equally as dangerous without them.

Gibbs waited for Beck to explain why he'd brought them to this training room. Gibbs recognized the type of place, had even trained in something similar when learning terrorist assault tactics. Not all battles were fought in open fields, and knowing how to handle himself and a team inside a closed room was valuable.

Beck didn't waste any time. "This is the Alpha Squad, Agent Gibbs, Officer David. Master Sergeants Franks, Medford, Aiello, and Rubrovitch."

"Gentlemen," Gibbs greeted the soldiers, Ziva nodding and sizing them up at the same time. "I presume that this squad is charged with the practical end of the research?"

"Exactly," Beck said. "I think the best way to help you understand our work is a short demonstration." He indicated the large office style training room. "This is where we conduct our preliminary testing as well as training. You see the picture at the end of the room?"

"The treasure chest gets to be the target." It would do for an exercise.

"Behind the frame is a safe that can be locked," Beck told them. "We won't lock it today; we're not doing any time trials. Our goal is to show you how the new technology can impact what we're doing on the world stage. Let's assume that this is the office of an enemy intelligence agent. He has placed information in that safe. The 'mission' today is to remove that information from the safe and bring it to those who can act upon it. First, let's see how a single man would fare under normal circumstances. Oh, and for the purposes of this demonstration, we are going to assume that it's dusk, the optimum time for suit use. The lights are going down." He turned to the soldiers. "Anyone care to volunteer?"

Gibbs was well aware that each of the four had been assessing him as well. He covered the smile that wanted to emerge. The volunteer was in for a shock.

All four offered. No surprise there. These were men who moved forward by taking on hard tasks. 'Assaulting' an NCIS officer would be a joy ride. 'Permission' to assault a 'cop'? Icing on the cake. Of _course_ they'd offer.

"Sergeant Franks," Beck selected. "Your 'mission' is to remove the papers from the safe behind the picture and bring them to me. Your only 'weapon' will be a demo knife." Another explanation to the guests: "We only use these specialized plastic training knives during these demonstration missions, Agent Gibbs, in order to minimize serious injury. These knives will leave a red paint mark where they touch but cause no serious injury." A small grin. "We will assume that if Sgt. Franks puts a red smile across your windpipe that he's 'killed' you. Your job will be to 'guard' the safe, and prevent Sgt. Franks from taking the papers. Again, for purposes of the demonstration, we'll keep it to knives." Beck glanced at the gun that Gibbs kept discretely in his shoulder holster. "In order to prevent damage, Agent Gibbs, I'm going to ask you to remove your weapon. You can put it on this table here. Just a precaution, you understand."

"Completely," Gibbs assured him. He turned to Ziva. "Officer David? Would you care to do the honors?"

"I would love to, Agent Gibbs." Ziva's eyes were shining. She carefully removed her own shoulder holster and, hiking up her pant leg to show off a shapely calf, detached the sheath with a long and wicked looking knife to place the sheath on the table beside her gun. She picked up one of the 'training' knives and replaced it into the waist of her pants.

To his credit, no expression crossed Sgt. Franks' face, but Gibbs could read the dismay in his eyes.

"Something amiss, sergeant?" he asked.

"Uh...sir? Ma'am, please don't take this the wrong way, but I'd feel bad if you were to be hurt." Franks towered over the smaller Israeli woman.

"Thank you, sergeant." Ziva was gracious. "I appreciate your concern. I, too, do not wish to injure you. I will be careful as well."

"Uh…" That wasn't quite what Franks meant.

Gibbs took pity on him. "Go ahead, sergeant. Oh, and don't hold back. It wouldn't be much of a demonstration if you did that."

"Uh… yes, sir." Franks gulped, trying to figure out what to do. He now had two conflicting directives: 'don't hurt the little NCIS agent' and 'don't hold back'. He flicked a glance at Beck and came to an independent decision. Hurting the little NCIS agent would be more damaging to his career than following the senior NCIS agent's directive. Franks would take it easy while trying to make it look good. Lots of arm-flailing would do, as long as the arms didn't connect with anything that came equipped with silky dark hair cascading down her back.

Ziva took up a position in front of the picture, 'guarding' the treasure. Beck turned down the overhead lights to simulate dusk. The room took on a darkened appearance, making the edges of the desk blur and the lines more indistinct.

Franks, with one more doubtful look at Captain Beck and his buddies, ambled forward through the line of desks as if he was a courier. He looked like a gorilla bearing down on the much smaller 'guard'.

"Hello, ma'am," he started to say.

He went for the first move. He reached for Ziva's shoulder, intending to grab and yank her off balance. Putting her down to the floor with a 'knife' strike to her throat would be easy after that.

It didn't work. Ziva knocked his arm aside, whirled in so that her shorter reach became an asset, and rammed her elbow into Franks' ribcage. He whoofed, and staggered.

Ziva wasn't finished. Another twist, and her leg swept Franks' out from under him. Already off balance, Franks dropped to the floor and landed on his back.

End of chivalry. The 'small NCIS female agent' suddenly turned into a 'worthy adversary'. Franks was finished with 'being careful not to hurt the little lady'.  
He lashed out with his own long legs, tangling with Ziva's and dropping her to the floor beside him. Franks rolled over, pulled out his practice knife and went for her throat.

Ziva grabbed his wrist, deflecting his aim. She wasn't strong enough to prevent him from a direct blow, and she didn't bother to try. Every attempt that Franks made, she knocked off-kilter and harmlessly to the floor.

It couldn't go on. Franks' greater size and strength would eventually win out. Ziva used the next tactic: she grabbed his wrist, the one with the knife, and squeezed on the pressure point. And squeezed some more.

No sound but that of heavy gulping of air. No grunts that a lesser man would have uttered under the same agony in his wrist.

The knife dropped out of suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering toward the floor. Ziva plucked it out of the air in one swift motion and twisted Franks' arm behind him in a classic half-Nelson. She rammed his chest onto the desk with a jolt that rattled the furniture, placing the 'knife' against his ribs. "Yield."  
A moment of futile struggling, then Franks tapped out on the desk in the classic surrender.

Ziva let him up, handing him the 'knife' hilt first. "Thank you, sergeant. I enjoyed that very much. You are a worthy opponent."

Franks looked a bit stunned at the turn of events. He accepted the knife. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am." He looked a bit sheepish, Gibbs noted, and wouldn't meet the eyes of the rest of Alpha Squad. His colleagues were clearly going to give him a hard time. Not in front of guests, but later on Sgt. Franks would be the butt of more than a few jokes.

Not Gibbs' problem. He was more interested in what would happen next.

Beck ignored Franks' obvious discomfort. The sergeant would get a chance to redeem himself. "You see what has happened in a normal situation," Beck said. "Sgt. Franks wasn't able to get to the target. Now let's try it with our new stealth technology, under the same conditions: dusk, with the same weaponry, with the same guard." He gestured. "Sgt. Franks?"

"Sir." Franks started shucking his clothing, revealing a dark gray cat suit affair that clung to every muscle in his body. He even doffed his shoes, leaving himself in stocking feet that the gray stuff covered over. As a last move, he pulled a hood from behind his neck over his head and down over his face.

Even as Gibbs watched, the soldier faded into the dusk. This wasn't just any cat suit that the man had under his fatigues. This was new technology at work, and Gibbs was impressed. He was looking straight at Franks, and he could still barely see the outline of the man in the dim light. If he looked hard, Gibbs could see that the cloth was thinner at the eyes, presumably so that the man could see without the bare skin giving him away.

"Officer David, are you ready?" Beck called out.

"Ready," she replied from her position 'guarding' the 'treasure'.

"Go."

Suddenly, Gibbs could no longer see Sgt. Franks. The man had slipped away into the dusk. Was he there, along the side of the room? Gibbs thought he could see the barest hint of an outline, a faint heat shimmering, then he wasn't sure. What he _was_ sure of was that Dr. Dovely was grinning like a Cheshire Cat, standing beside Captain Beck, watching this scenario play out a heck of lot differently than the first.

Ziva too looked confused. She had watched Franks advance the first time; now she couldn't see him. She scanned the room, her 'knife' held at ready.

There! A noise from one side—Franks had stumbled carelessly against a desk. Gibbs couldn't see him, and he wasn't at all convinced that Ziva could either, but right now hearing was more valuable than sight.

Three seconds later Franks was holding Ziva's chin high, his 'knife' having traced a line of 'blood' across her neck. He'd come from the opposite side, having drawn her attention away by tossing something for her to hear and turn toward.

"You're 'dead'," he announced, victory in his voice. He released the Israeli agent, and pulled wide the frame of the 'treasure chest' to remove the papers. "I win."

Ziva ran her fingers across the red line on her throat, smearing the dye used to simulate blood. She was very gracious in defeat. "Excellent, sergeant. I never saw you. Most impressive technology," she acknowledged. "In the hands of a skilled soldier such as yourself, extremely effective."

"It has drawbacks." Dr. Dovely was clearly pleased at this demonstration. "It works best under low light conditions, and isn't designed for daylight. It can't be used with any type of body armor; too bulky, and restricts movement."

"Still, for stealth work it would be of great benefit." Ziva fingered the cloth on Sergeant Frank's arm, feeling how soft it was, almost like silk. Gibbs could see the hunger to acquire an outfit for herself on Ziva's face. Most women, he reflected, liked getting a new dress. Ziva would be much happier to have one of these cat suits in her wardrobe. "How does it work?"

"Nanotechnology," Dr. Dovely tried to explain. "Microscopic lens reflect or absorb light, based on a pre-determined set of protocols, and that diverts light in the fashion that you have just observed."

Gibbs tuned out. Science stuff; it was why he kept Ducky and Abby and McGee around, so that he didn't have to deal with it. A cell phone was the limit of his needs, and a computer was pushing it. "Commander Rickover knew all of this stuff."

"He knew the basics," Beck said. "He didn't know enough to be of much value to an enemy agent. As I've said, they'd be much more likely to go after Dr. Dovely here, or even some of her technicians."

"Actually, the suit itself would be more useful," Dr. Dovely put in. "Reverse engineering; any half-way competent researcher could discover the principles and duplicate this in a year or two."

Gibbs had already moved on to the more pertinent parts of the investigation. "Is there any chance that knowledge of this technique has seeped out into the intelligence community?"

Beck was up on those details. "The community knows that we're working on stealth technology, and that it's designed for covert operations. Beyond that, nothing is known."

"Are you certain of that?"

"Fairly."

"Ziva?" Gibbs turned to the Mossad agent.

"The international intelligence community was aware of your work some two years ago," she said. "It is also known that it is useful in undercover work, that it works on a single operative, and that it could be used for operations such as the demonstration you have just given us. The exact technology is still a secret, but several organizations are working on their own versions as well as ways to protect against it. It is estimated that duplicates will be available within three to four years. If a sample can be obtained, that lead time could be reduced to as short as six months."

"Thank you, Officer David." Gibbs turned back to Captain Beck. "I think we can safely say that there is some knowledge of your technology out there, and that various organizations would like to get their hands on it. Would you agree?"

"Uh… yes." Beck wasn't pleased, but there wasn't much that he could do.

"I'm going to suggest that you review your security protocols very carefully, colonel," Gibbs advised. "It wouldn't surprise me to learn that someone was trying to subvert Commander Rickover in some fashion. We'll work on the details of his demise, while you try to prevent any further information from leaking out. Agreed?"

* * *

"Ah. Jethro. Come in," Dr. Mallard invited. "Mr. Palmer and I have all but finished on Commander Rickover. I'm afraid this unfortunate fellow will not be able to use the two concert tickets that were found in his pocket."

"I'm sure someone else will slide into those seats, tickets or not. The thing was sold out weeks ago." Gibbs really didn't care about any concert, no matter that it was the main topic of conversation for the rest of the office for the last two weeks. "Cause of death, Ducky?"

"Really very interesting, Jethro." Ducky motioned the team leader over to the autopsy table. The corpse was there, the typical 'Y' incision opening his chest for a closer examination. Other areas of the body had been probed and swabbed, and Ducky's assistant was in the background, processing those specimens and preparing them to be shipped up to the forensics area for identification. "As I suspected earlier, the cause of death for Commander Rickover was not, in fact, the three parallel wounds to the abdomen."

"So what was it, Ducky?"

"I'm getting to that, Jethro. The wounds were relatively shallow, only one doing more than piercing the subcutaneous layer. That one wound entered the peritoneal cavity itself, and the whole scenario partially explains the lack of blood loss. However, there was more."

"Which was?" Gibbs knew when to put in a straight line for the medical examiner.

"I was able to determine the cause of death," Ducky told him. "Commander Rickover's neck was broken. Snapped, actually; death would have been nearly instantaneous for the poor chap. The parallel wounds to the abdomen were inflicted post-mortem to make it appear as though he'd been savaged by some wild animal in the area. It might have confused or possibly perplexed the average medical examiner with too much on his or her plate to take the time to investigate, and doubtless that was what the assailant was hoping for. There's more to back up my evaluation," he added. "Observe the remainder of the corpse. What do you see?"

Gibbs squinted at the remains illuminated by the bright overhead exam lights. "Nothing. What am I supposed to see, Ducky?"

"Exactly, Jethro," Ducky said triumphantly. "You see nothing. What wild animal do you know would inflict three parallel slash wounds in order to kill its prey, and then wander away? There are no bite marks anywhere on the body. No, I believe we must assume that the wounds were placed there by some human assailant. I have found traces of a foreign substance in those wounds; I've sent them up to Abby for identification."

"Good work, Ducky." Gibbs turned to go.

"Just a moment, Jethro," Ducky stopped him. He held up a small plastic bag with something small and dark inside. "You haven't seen the best part. It appears that Commander Rickover struggled against his assailant. I found this underneath one of his fingernails. It appears to be some sort of cloth. It may be difficult to trace, but perhaps—"

Gibbs grabbed the specimen from the doctor. "You sure, Ducky? You got this from under Rickover's fingernail?"

"You recognize it, Jethro?" Ducky was surprised at the vehemence of his friend. "It appears to be a mere shred of grey cloth. It could be from almost anything, any article of clothing."

"Yes, it could, couldn't it?" Gibbs kept staring at the specimen inside the plastic bag. "Ducky, you may have supplied a large part of this case." He hustled out of the morgue, eyes still on the bag.

"Glad to be of service, Jethro," Ducky called after the retreating figure.

* * *

"Gibbs!" Abby called out as he strode into her lab. "You came! Just like you always do! I have this really neat piece of evidence to show you, and you came just like always!"

At first glance, no one would ever mistake Abigail Sciutto for a forensics scientist, let alone an expert in her field. Dark hair clashed with icicle blue eyes, long legs poked out from a black and white striped skirt that just barely covered enough to keep the Bunsen burner from overheating, and the only partly covered spider web tattoo on her neck proclaimed that this was someone seriously into an alternative lifestyle.

None of that mattered to Gibbs. What mattered was that Abby was damn good at her job, and that Gibbs could count on her. He might not understand what she was telling him, but he knew that she would make it comprehensible enough so that mere mortals, of whom Gibbs was a prime specimen, would be able to use the data that she gave him. Evidence for a courtroom jury was also high up there. Bottom line: Gibbs valued what Abby brought to the case.

Of course, no one ever believed that the gruff, tough-as-nails marine could care about his team. He brought Abby her super-caffeinated drinks because they kept her speeding through her lab faster than two gerbils in a meth kitchen, not because he cared about her as a person. After all, the leads that she produced solved cases, and wasn't that what life was all about? It certainly wasn't about relationships. Gibbs' own failed marriages proved that.

"What'cha got, Abbs?" The specimen bag containing the shred of gray cloth was scorching Gibbs' fingers, but letting the forensics scientist get out what she needed to would save time in the long run. Gibbs let her babble.

She did. "Gibbs, I ran an analysis on the foreign material that Ducky gave me—you know. The stuff that he found in those wounds? You're never going to believe what it is, Gibbs!"

Gibbs stayed patient. "What is it, Abby?"

"Metal, Gibbs," Abby told him proudly, pointing at some odd machine printing out spikes onto a graph as though it was supposed to mean something to him. "Tempered steel, used in lots of things."

"Do we know which thing this came from?"

Abby beamed. "Actually, yes, Gibbs. There are only a few companies in the world that use this particular type of tempered steel. In addition to the carbon added to the iron, there's a bit of copper, some titanium—"

"Right, Abby. The company?"

Abby tapped her computer. "Four of them, but only one here in America: RG, Inc. Guess what they make, Gibbs?"

"Not in the mood for guessing games, Abby. Enlighten me."

He didn't dim her enthusiasm. "Small hand weapons, Gibbs."

Gibbs frowned. "Guns?" He didn't see how metal from a gun could have gotten into a post-mortem wound without leaving a bullet somewhere nearby.

"No, Gibbs." Abby grinned. "Ever hear of a cestus?"

Another frown. "Wasn't that some sort of chastity belt, used by the ancient Greeks?"

"Gibbs, you amaze me," Abby said with a grin. "I didn't know that you had a classical education."

"I didn't. Blame my fourth grade teacher who had a love for Greek mythology. What does ancient Greek birth control have to do with our dead commander?"

"Nothing, except that the cestus is also the name of an ancient Greco-Roman weapon, used by soldiers fighting each other, and bears, and lions, and all sorts of nasty things. It looks kind of like a glove, and it has metal spikes, and can do some serious damage in the wrong hands. It's really cool when it's in a computer game."

"I take it that modern versions of this cestus are being made by your RP, Inc., company, with the exact metallic composition as the traces that were found in Commander Rickover?"

"You got it, Gibbs." Abby took a long slurp on her Caf-Pow to emphasize her point, the dregs echoing in the bottom of the large cup. "They tried to make it look like a bear or something got to him, but the wounds were all the wrong size for a bear. A tiger, too, or a lion. All wrong. Not right. Not even the right size and shape for Wolverine or Sabre-Tooth or any other Marvel comic character that uses claws."

"Nice going, Abby." It was. Gibbs was impressed. There had been a lot of activity going on in the last few hours, and it had come up with some serious leads. "I'll have McGee research who buys these sorts of things."

"Tell him that I'm not a suspect. I have one hanging over my picture of Michael J. Fox in his Teen Wolf costume at home."

Gibbs grinned. "I'll tell him." Mystery solved. It was obvious how Abby had come to her conclusion about the origin of the weapon used on Rickover. "I've got a new one for you." He held out the specimen that he'd obtained from Dr. Mallard. "Take a look at this, and tell me what you think."

Abby peered at it. "Gray cloth, Gibbs. You expect me to come up with something from a shred of gray cloth? There are literally billions upon billions of people wearing gray—"

"Not this type of gray, Abby. Put it under a microscope."

"Okay. Hang on. No, don't tell me." Abby held up her hand to stop Gibbs from speaking, even though he hadn't tried to. She peered into the microscope, her hand still hanging in the air for preventative purposes. "Whoa. Way cool. What is it, Gibbs? I've never seen anything like this."

"I thought you didn't want me to tell you."

"I don't. So don't tell me, Gibbs. Let me bask in the glow of the light shining up through the microscope into whatever this is." Abby didn't budge from the monoscopic lens. "Gibbs, this stuff is incredible. Whatever it is, it's not cloth. I mean, it's cloth, but it's not real cloth. Or maybe it is, but it isn't. Where did it come from?"

"Underneath the fingernail of Commander Rickover," Gibbs told her. "You think you can identify it?"

"It's gonna be tough, Gibbs. I may need another Caf-Pow."

Gibbs set another large container on the counter beside her.

A crafty look came over Abby's face. "Maybe two. This stuff looks wild."

One side of Gibbs' lips quirked upward. "The next one comes when you identify the specimen, Abby."

* * *

DiNozzo was amusing himself. He crumpled up the piece of paper into a small ball, and positioned himself properly. This would take a lot of skill, and he knew that both Ziva and McGee were watching him perform this same action over and over again. He gloated. He could do this; they couldn't. End of story, and enjoyable to boot. He aimed, and shot.

The wad of paper bounced gently against the computer screen, rebounded, and arced serenely into his waste paper basket.

"That's sixteen out of," Tony paused for effect, "sixteen. Perfect score. Could have been on 'The Fish That Saved Pittsburgh', right next to Dr. J and Kareem himself." He looked at his two team mates. "What, you've never seen 'The Fish That Saved Pittsburgh'? Only one of the greatest basketball movies of all time."

"Tony, I don't think I was alive when it was made," McGee reproved him. "Or maybe I was too young to care."

"And that matters _why,_ McGeek? With all your technological wizardry, you can't figure out how to program your DVD player to play a DVD?"

 _Whack!_

DiNozzo knew that whack. It meant that Gibbs was now standing behind him. It meant that Tony's hair had gotten ruffled, along with his brains. "Hey, boss."

"DiNozzo, if I'd wanted McGee to watch DVDs, I wouldn't have asked him to run down the financials on the victim." Gibbs turned to his next victim. "McGee?"

"Right here, boss. Commander Laurence Rickover, age thirty-four, career navy, bachelor's from the University of Delaware in physics, which was one of the reasons why he got assigned to the Heisenberg. Did two tours in the Persian Gulf, transferred to the Heisenberg Research facility almost six months ago. Married, no children, wife Elaine Donovan Rickover, who also has a bachelor's from Delaware but in psychology; works at a bookstore downtown. Financially secure with his paycheck and hers, own a small condo in one of the less prestigious suburbs. No evidence that the Rickover's are living beyond their means. No questionable financial transactions that they have engaged in. The only large sum of money that changed hands was to a car dealership, purchasing a used car, two months ago. A Mitsubishi Eclipse," McGee added, as if that made a difference.

"So, in other words, we have nothing."

"Not quite, boss. I did run across something interesting: an insurance policy on Commander Rickover, purchased less than two weeks ago."

"The wife?"

"She's the beneficiary, boss, but she didn't buy it. Her signature is not on the policy, according to the insurance company."

"Who did?"

"Nobody knows, boss. The handwriting is indecipherable. Only the wife's name is clear, and it wasn't her signature."

Gibbs glared. "Well, _somebody_ had to buy the damn thing. Find out, McGee!"

"Yes, boss." McGee fled, grateful to be out of the line of fire.

Gibbs went for the next throat. "I hope you have something more for me, DiNozzo."

"Yes, boss, I do." DiNozzo tapped the desk in a musical rhythm. "I have the Circle of the Wood Sprites." He waited for the expected groan.

He was disappointed. Gibbs only stared at him. "Well?"

"Right. Not a coven, or so they claim. This group has been in existence for less than three years. It was started by Melanie Terwilliger, head sprite and elf lord. Lady." Tony was disappointed again. He had hoped to use the elf lord line when Probie was present. He moved on. "Despite not being a coven, they worship nature, Mother Earth, the Earth Goddess, and I'm sure Abby could come up with a few more titles for their particular brand of tree-hugging paganism." Tony consulted his notes. "I did some checking around. Almost nobody has heard of these Wood Sprites, not even the more well-known covens in the area. Terwilliger herself is a transplant in from Connecticut. She owns the bookstore where Elaine Rickover works, which is how they met a few months ago. She also had some money, which she invested in real estate."

"The real estate outside the Heisenberg Research Facility?"

"You got it, boss. Several acres of trees, streams, and lots of little bugs."

Ziva perked her head up. "Why would someone want to put listening devices on unimproved land?"

"Real bugs, Ziva. Mosquitoes. Honey bees. Centipedes, with lots of hairy legs."

"Of course, Tony," Ziva returned, a small smile playing over her lips, leading Tony to wonder whose leg was being pulled. The Israeli agent had a most _erratic_ command of English… She turned to Gibbs. "Gibbs, I would like to talk to Mrs. Rickover once more. She is not telling us everything. I believe if I question her while not in the presence of her compatriots, I will learn more."

"You got it. Go."

Ziva didn't wait for another invitation.

"And me, boss?" Tony raised his eyebrows.

Gibbs allowed a rare smile to cross his face. "I'm giving you the elf lord, DiNozzo. And I don't mean McGee."

* * *

Ziva got the opportunity to assess the Rickover household herself, and she availed herself of it. The condo wasn't in the most prestigious of areas but, Ziva thought, the man was military. A large salary wasn't expected, and a nicer place would have aroused her suspicions. It was well kept up, the grass neatly mowed and the shrubbery clipped. Ziva continued to reserve her opinion; the wife could be the one who kept up the household. The wife worked part time, and undoubtedly had additional hours to spend on such chores.

Inside was likewise nice but not overly ostentatious nor expensive. One of them, either the victim or the wife, had an eye for decorating. Ziva found that she liked the bird motif that danced through the room, peering at the gentle flock of silver metal sparrows that had been tacked onto one wall and looking for all the world as if they were about fly off into the dining area. There was a wine rack in one corner that looked more like a grape vine than a wine rack. Ziva couldn't see all of the names on the bottles but the visible labels suggested that Commander and Mrs. Rickover didn't try to afford hundred year old bottles of Chateau LeSorbonne. This was a restful home, a place where Commander Rickover could look forward to spending his hours in peace. It would be a pleasant change from the frenetic pace that Ziva had observed in the Heisenberg facility.

Elaine Rickover had been crying. Ziva was clear on that; the woman had been crying for quite a while by now, mourning the loss of her husband. Eyes could look tearful, but the swollen and blotchy appearance that Mrs. Rickover had could only have been acquired from several hours of tears. The woman was hiding something, but she had genuinely cared about her husband.

"I am sorry for your loss," Ziva said formally. "May I come in?"

Mrs. Rickover didn't trust her voice. Instead, she gestured, holding open the door. She coughed, clearing her throat. "Have you found anything?" Another growth of tears spurted into her eyes, one trickling along her nose. She dabbed at it with the tissue in her hand.

"We are still investigating," Ziva told her, as the best answer under the circumstances. "I need to ask you some questions."

A flicker of resentment came and went across Elaine Rickover's face. "Why? Don't you have everything that you need? Can't you leave me alone?"

"I am sorry," Ziva repeated. "I'll try not to take up much of your time." She indicated the sofa, the coffee table in front of it already littered with soggy tissues. The television was on, with some game show host directing the viewers' attention to various products for sale at inflated prices, the noise serving only as a background distraction for the new widow. Ziva, spotting the remote, used it to click off the set.

Silence settled into the household. Wind chimes tinkled in some back room, barely heard. Ziva settled herself onto the sofa in a mute invitation for Mrs. Rickover to join her.

"How long were you married?"

"Eleven years," Mrs. Rickover said automatically. "It would have been twelve next month." A new tear arrived with that announcement.

Ziva chose to attack obliquely. "Your group; the Circle of Wood Sprites. How long have you been a member?"

Mrs. Rickover sniffled the tears back. "I'm a founding member."

"A founding member?"

"Yes. Dawnwind began to draw people to her, and I was one of the first."

"How did you meet her?" Still simply drawing the witness out. Talking now would lead to more talking later, on more pertinent topics.

"Dawnwind owns a small bookshop, on Fifteenth, near Lincoln Park. She needed someone part time, and I was looking for part time work. Ricky had just transferred back home, and we were adjusting." Another tear. "We were thinking about starting a family. Seriously thinking, I mean. We'd tried before, but things never seemed to work out. We were seeing doctors."

"Ah." That explained the lack of children. "How were things between you?"

Her eyes flashed. "I loved my husband! Don't try to make this into something ugly!"

"I'm not insinuating anything, Mrs. Rickover," Officer David tried to soothe the witness, although not very hard. This was the next phase of the questioning. Upset witnesses sometimes said more than they realized. "You understand, I have to ask these questions. You say you were happily married?"

"Yes." Still not completely mollified. "It was even better now that he was home, at a regular assignment."

"Did he like his assignment?"

"Yes."

"Did he talk about it?"

"Very little. Nothing about the work itself," Mrs. Rickover added, well aware of what a different answer might lead to in a situation filled with national security. "Just a little about some of the people who worked there. Dealing with non-military people, for example, and how they didn't always follow the rules."

"Who were some of the people who didn't follow the rules?"

Mrs. Rickover stared at her. "What are you saying? Why are you asking me all these questions?"

"Mrs. Rickover—"

"My husband was killed in a freak accident," she insisted. "He was killed by a bear! Why are you asking me about his co-workers? Do you think it wasn't an accident?"

"Mrs. Rickover, we don't know what to think quite yet," Ziva returned firmly. _Actually, we do, but we're not telling anyone else. We want to keep you guessing, just in case you had something to do with it._ "This is why we are investigating, so that we can come to a conclusion." She returned to her original line of attack, choosing to be more blunt. "Is there anyone who would want to see your husband dead?"

"No—no," Mrs. Rickover stammered. "No, there isn't!"

"Come, Mrs. Rickover. Your husband worked in a research facility, overseeing the work of many people, protecting that work from enemy intelligence agents. You're telling me that no one wanted him dead?"

"No!" Mrs. Rickover insisted. "If there was, then Ricky didn't tell me about them!"

Ziva accepted her statement at face value, and returned to her original question. "Who were some of the people that your husband told you didn't follow the rules?"

"No one." Sullenly.

"Mrs. Rickover, earlier you told me that your husband complained of some of those people. What were their names?"

"No one," Mrs. Rickover repeated. "He complained, but he never named names."

"Man or woman?"

She thought. Ziva could follow the thoughts moving through Mrs. Rickover's mind. "Woman."

"Only one?"

"Probably more." Mrs. Rickover looked around uncomfortably, tried to look at her wristwatch before realizing that she didn't have one on. "Is this going to take much longer?"

 _Only as long as you make it,_ Ziva thought, suppressing a smile a victory. She moved onto another tack. "What was your husband doing in the woods last night, Mrs. Rickover?"

 _Flash of fear._ "I don't know."

 _Lie._ Ziva knew that she had her. Now Ziva allowed a small smile to play across her lips, knowing that Mrs. Rickover was watching her closely to see if the lie had been successful. "Are you certain that you wish to adhere to that story, Mrs. Rickover? This is a Federal investigation. There are severe penalties for lying." Actually, Ziva couldn't remember what those penalties were or if they even existed in the American legal system, but admitting her ignorance wouldn't achieve Ziva's goal.

Mrs. Rickover swallowed hard, her eyes darting nervously from side to side. If Ziva hadn't know it before, it was obvious now: Elaine Rickover was hiding something. Ziva moved in. "Why was your husband in the woods last night, Mrs. Rickover? Surely you don't want to tell me that he was a member of your cult."

Mrs. Rickover licked her lips. "No. No, he wasn't."

"Then why was he there? Was he spying on you, perhaps? Was he jealous of someone? A cult member, maybe?" Ziva edged closer to her witness, using mere presence as a tool to coerce the truth.

"No! Not…not a cult member." Elaine Rickover's hands were clearly trembling.

"Then, who? Who were you going to meet while at your ritual?"

"I…No one." Elaine Rickover got hold of herself. "No one," she repeated. "My husband was a jealous man."

"You just said that you had a good marriage. That does not sound like a good marriage to me," Ziva told her.

"It is! It was! He had no reason to be jealous!"

"But, perhaps, natural, given the circumstances." Ziva allowed the heat to die down—but not too much. "A man gone for long periods of time on deployment, leaving a young and beautiful wife behind; he arranges for a transfer to a position where he can be home. Now home, he finds that he cannot give you children. Your lives cannot move forward. What man wouldn't suspect that his wife would look for someone more able to meet her needs?" Ziva paused, to give her next question more weight. "Who did your husband suspect, Mrs. Rickover?"

The thoughts were almost obvious, running through the new widow's mind: _do I give him up? Do I protect him? Will I make things worse by lying?_

Ziva chose that last thought to counter first. "You will only harm yourself and him by not admitting to the truth, Mrs. Rickover," she warned. "Who did your husband suspect?"

This time, Elaine Rickover looked away, and Ziva didn't push. This was the moment for patience, and Ziva was rewarded.

"Don Medford. Sergeant Don Medford."

 _Yes!_ Ziva kept her own body language under tight control. Now was the time to gently pursue, while the grief-stricken widow was still wounded and vulnerable. "Did your husband have reason to be jealous, Mrs. Rickover?"

This time Elaine Rickover met Ziva's eyes. "Nothing happened."

"You were not intimate with him." Ziva made it a statement.

"I—I thought about it. But I couldn't go through with it." Tears were running freely now, and Mrs. Rickover plucked another tissue from the box, dabbing at her eyes. "I—I wanted a child so badly, and Ricky was so angry that he couldn't do his part, and Don looked so much like Ricky that I thought it wouldn't matter…" Her voice trailed off.

"So your husband suspected a man in his command of seducing his wife. What was Sgt. Medford's reaction, Mrs. Rickover?"

"I asked him to stop."

"Did he?"

"Oh, yes!" This Elaine Rickover could say for certain. "Don is a gentleman; he even sent me flowers at work. But once we realized that things had gone too far, I asked him to stop and I've never seen him again."

"Did your husband know this?"

Another stare out through the window. "I don't know. I never told him about Don and I."

"But he still knew."

"He suspected," Mrs. Rickover corrected. "I never told him anything. He never knew for certain."

Ziva abruptly switched topics. "Last night in the forest, several of your compatriots said that they had heard someone or something crashing about in the bush. Did you hear that also?"

Mrs. Rickover blinked. "Yes. It sounded like a bear."

"Did you see it?"

"No. It was too dark."

 _Lie._ The widow had a good idea of who it was, and she was afraid that it really was her erstwhile suitor.

But this time Ziva would have no lever to pry it out of her.

That would come later.

* * *

Melanie Terwilliger's book store was exactly as Tony expected it to be: dark and gloomy, filled with exotic incense and ritual paraphernalia, with a candle burning more incense into the air settled on top of the counter near the cash register. Tony frowned; an open flame. Wasn't that against some sort of fire regulations? He decided to ignore it for the moment. He was NCIS, not the local fire chief.

And there were books. Thousands of books. Maybe millions—Tony decided to stop with the hyperbole and concentrate on the job. It was a bookstore; there needed to be books. It was a good cover, if that was all that it was.

Tony could get into that. He'd done undercover himself, appreciated the amount of work that it took to do it right. Now it was time to see if 'Dawnwind' was really a cover and not some ditzy dame with delusions of witchery.

So far it seemed like the real deal. The books on the shelves were a mixture of New Age and self-help, just the thing to appeal to an aspiring witch. There was low end stuff, there was high end stuff—and nothing in between.

Tony coughed. The patchouli aroma was getting to him. Time to get this over with and out into some fresh air. He waited until the lone customer paid for his purchases and ambled out before approaching the witness.

She recognized him with all the enthusiasm of an enema. "Agent DiNozzo."

"Ms. Terwilliger—Ms. Dawnwind," he corrected himself before she could do it for him. It was a deliberate error, so that he could point out that he was respecting her wishes. This interview was going to start on the right foot. Whether it stayed there was entirely up to her. "We have some more questions for you."

She sighed, the 'give me a break' sort of sigh that was meant to be interpreted as 'let's get this over with'. "What is it this time?"

Tony wasted no time. "Your 'Circle'. Did you start it, or is it an off-shoot of another group that you've been involved in?"

"The Earth Mother began our Circle—"

"I'm talking in the Twenty-First Century sense, rather than the metaphysical." Tony cut her off. "Do you report to anyone in the physical sense?"

She glared at him. "No."

Gads, a straight answer. Tony could have cheered. He pushed his luck. "Did you start your 'Circle' when you moved here?"

Another glare. "Yes."

"How long have you lived in this area?"

"Three years." Apparently Dawnwind had decided that the best way to get rid of him was to give short, succinct answers.

Tony wasn't objecting. "How often do you hold rituals on the property outside of the Heisenberg Facility?"

"You mean the property that I own?" Snidely.

"Yes," Tony acknowledged her point, and added one of his own: "the crime scene."

Dawnwind 'won'. "As often as the Goddess demands it."

Tony fought to keep from rolling his eyes. "And that would be how often?"

"Frequently."

"I'm guessing that more frequently in the summer, and less frequently during the cold winter months," Tony told her. "Do you keep a calendar of the dates?"

"No."

Inspiration struck. "Not a problem. I'll check with some of the other members of your group. I'm sure we'll be able to piece together a timeline." Tony moved onto the next topic, having exhausted his creativity with this one. "You told me that you heard a bear last night."

"That's right."

"Could it have been Commander Rickover?"

"No."

"What makes you so certain?"

"Because I saw it, Agent DiNozzo." Dawnwind rested her elbows onto the glass countertop and looked up at him with sea-green eyes. "I saw a bear rise up on two legs, reach toward the moon, and then drop down onto four legs and disappear into the brush. That good enough for you, Agent DiNozzo?"

"Works for me." DiNozzo got down onto his elbows himself so that he was on the same level as his target. "Why do you think Commander Rickover was there last night?"

"I don't go around reading other people's minds, Agent DiNozzo."

Tony chose not to ask if she thought she was a mind-reader. There were some things that he didn't want to know—or challenge. "Make a guess."

"Maybe he wanted to visit Moonbeam," Dawnwind suggested. "They were married, after all."

"At five in the morning? Why didn't he simply walk up to you?"

"Embarrassed, perhaps?" she suggested.

"What would he have to be embarrassed about?"

"Agent DiNozzo," Dawnwind said, getting right into Tony's personal space, " _many_ people are embarrassed to join us. Are you?"

Tony felt the tips of his ears turning red. Was she coming on to him? Dilated pupils, a blush in the cheeks—Tony really wished that Ziva was beside him. Or that Gibbs had assigned McGee to this witness, one elf lord to another.

Dawnwind drew back, moistening her lips. She gently blew out the candle on the counter beside them. "Any more questions, Agent DiNozzo?" Suddenly very prim. Yet there was a certain tilt to those hips… "Any thing I can help you with?"

Distraction. That was what she was doing: trying to distract him. That realization helped him to cool down immediately. Annoyance hadn't gotten rid of him, so now she was trying to embarrass him. What would come next? File a complaint of sexual harassment? It wouldn't be the first time an uncooperative witness tried that dodge.

It also gave him his first, second, and third clues that he wasn't going to get anything more out of this chick. Maybe he'd take Ziva along next time, for protection? Sounded like a good idea.

"You've been very helpful, Ms. Dawnwind," Tony lied. He closed up his note pad. It had been a long time since he'd been propositioned like that, and he still didn't like it. Tony DiNozzo liked to pick his women outside of work, not have them try to use sex as a weapon. Dawnwind was trying to hide something, but it was very likely just a healthy distrust of Federal agents. "We'll be in touch if anything comes up."

"You do that, Agent DiNozzo," Melanie Terwilliger, AKA Dawnwind, cooed.

Tony escaped into the fresh air, leaving a cloud of patchouli-scented smoke behind him.

 _Definitely McGee, next time. One elf lord to another._

* * *

Abby Sciutto marched up to Gibbs' desk. Everyone in the building could tell simply by her gait that the Forensics specialist was a very unhappy scientist. Her head was down, and her eyes were keeping track of where her feet went.

She set the large cup of Caf-Pow onto Gibbs' desk, looking as though the tears had a fifty-fifty chance of flowing. Gibbs cocked his head to look up at her. He raised his eyebrows.

Abby lifted her chin. "I don't deserve this, Gibbs," she announced. "Here. Take it back."

"Abby?"

"I couldn't figure it out, Gibbs," she confessed. "The gray cloth stuff? It's not cloth. Not really. It looks like cloth, and it acts like cloth, but it's not cloth. It's not cotton, it's not wool, it's not even nylon or any synthetic fiber that I can identify. It's got the weirdest properties I've ever seen: it soaks up light like a sponge." She swallowed hard. "I failed, Gibbs. I deserve to be fired." She hung her head in shame. "You didn't come to my lab, looking for answers, because I didn't have an answer to give you." Abby pushed the Caf-Pow toward Gibbs, to emphasize her position. "I don't deserve any more Caf-Pows. Ever."

"Abby—"

"No, Gibbs. I failed." Abby was determined to pour out her shortcomings. "You came to me for answers, and this time I don't have an answer for you."

"Abby, will you be quiet for a moment?" Gibbs rose so that he could look her eye to eye. "Abby, you didn't fail. In fact, you gave me the answer that I needed." He handed back the super-sized cup of Caf-Pow.

"I did?" Abby was flabbergasted. "But Gibbs! I didn't identify it. How can you tell who wore this stuff unless I can identify it? I mean, maybe it was a shroud, or maybe it was a costume, or maybe it was a who knows what—"

"You're absolutely right, Abby," Gibbs agreed, "and I think the answer to your question is walking in right now. Captain Beck," he greeted the head of the Heisenberg Research Facility. "Dr. Dovely."

"Agent Gibbs," Beck responded curtly. He ignored Abby. "Gibbs, we need to talk." He glanced around, taking in that they were in a large bullpen. "Privately."

"I suspect we do," Gibbs said amiably. "Captain Beck, Dr. Dovely, my Forensics specialist, Abby Sciutto."

"How do you do, ma'am," Beck said automatically, not paying attention to the person that his words were directed toward. "Gibbs, now?"

"In a moment, captain." Gibbs gestured to Abby. "I think there's something we all need to see in the Forensics lab."

"We don't have time—"

"Oh, this I think you'll make time for." Gibbs wasn't taking no for an answer.

"Gibbs?" Even Abby was puzzled, but not for long. She grinned, and turned. "Right this way, Doctor, Captain sir."

The Forensics Lab was filled with Abby's equipment. Gibbs was familiar with the look if not the function of the various pieces, and Captain Beck appeared to share that opinion of the technology. Dr. Dovely took it all in stride, which Gibbs took to mean that the doctor was aware of the purpose and workings of Abby's machinery. Most of the analytical equipment was silent, their jobs having been completed, although not to Abby's satisfaction.

That was about to change.

"Abby," Gibbs directed, "show Dr. Dovely the specimen that I gave you."

Abby was already ahead of him. She plucked up the gray cloth specimen, still in its plastic bag, and handed it to Dr. Dovely.

Petra Dovely's eyes narrowed. She cast a significant glance at Gibbs, then at Beck. She turned to Abby. "Scope?"

"Right here." Abby led her to the microscope and handed her a pair of tweezers. Dovely plucked the gray shred of cloth out of the bag and placed onto the viewing bed. She peered down through the lens.

It took less than a minute. "That's it," she told Beck grimly.

"You're certain?"

"I'm certain."

"Certain of what?" Abby wanted to know.

Beck ignored the Forensics specialist. "Where did you get this, Gibbs?" He started to reach for the specimen.

Gibbs intercepted his hand. "Sorry, captain. That's evidence. It's not leaving this room, except to a court house."

"There's not going to be a trial," Beck said. "Not with this." He tried to snag it from Gibbs' hand.

Gibbs wouldn't let him have it. "Trial or no, this is not going anywhere except to the Evidence Room."

"Gibbs—"

"Sorry, captain. No exceptions."

"I'll take it up with your boss."

"Be my guest," Gibbs invited. "Her office is three flights up. I wouldn't bother, though," he added thoughtfully. "She's out of town. Won't be back for a day or two."

Beck halted. That avenue was closed. He tried for another aspect. "Where did you find it?"

Stupid question. "Would you believe the crime scene?" Gibbs offered.

"Scrap torn onto a bush?"

"On the victim. Under his fingernail."

Beck uttered a short and pungent curse.

"Exactly," Gibbs agreed. "Now, what was it that you wanted to tell me earlier?"

"What?"

"You came to NCIS Headquarters for a reason," Gibbs reminded him. "What was it? What did you want to tell me?"

Beck didn't seem nearly as certain that he wanted to share the information any longer. Petra Dovely, however, wasn't of the same opinion. "Tell him, Howard," she insisted. "We need to know how Ricky died. If our research has been compromised, then we need to know. You know that."

"Petra—"

"Tell him," she repeated. "Tell him, Howard."

Beck tightened his lips, coming to an internal decision. "All right. But what I'm about to say goes no further than this room." Now he did glance at Abby. "Perhaps there's a place where we could discuss this privately."

"My team knows what I know," Gibbs said blandly, "including my specialists. They can't do their jobs otherwise."

Beck almost opened his mouth to object, and reconsidered once more. Over a barrel was the phrase that came to Gibbs' mind, and he was something less than displeased.

"All right," Beck said finally. He looked away, using anger to displace unhappiness. "The technology that Petra developed: we currently have four suits in use. You saw one, in the demonstration."

"Stealth technology," Gibbs said in an aside to Abby. "Soldiers wear cat suits made of that gray cloth. Makes 'em almost invisible."

"Cool!"

"Not invisible," Dr. Dovely corrected. "It deflects or absorbs light, depending on the wavelength of visible light."

"Wow," Abby breathed. "That's _way_ cool! That's _science fiction_ way cool. Nanotechnology, right?"

"Exactly," Dr. Dovely beamed, pleased to find someone who spoke scientific-ese. "The cloth is impregnated with nanites, each designed to react to a different and specific wavelength in one of two ways: it will—"

"I'm certain that the explanation can wait for a more appropriate venue, Dr. Dovely," Beck interrupted.

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. What better place for a scientific discussion than a lab bubbling over with machinery meant for scientific analysis? Just because Gibbs himself didn't follow the discussion didn't mean that he couldn't appreciate the irony of the statement.

Beck moved on. "Agent Gibbs, once you appraised us of Commander Rickover's death, we checked over our own security measures. Specifically, we counted to make certain that all of our stealth suits were accounted for. We measured each one, in case someone had the bright idea to remove a small shred of the nanite-impregnated material; a shred exactly like what you have here." He indicated the specimen that was bag inside the evidence bag in Gibbs' hand.

"What did you find?" Gibbs asked. "Is one of your men playing fast and loose with expensive and highly marketable technology?"

"All four suits were intact," Dovely said. "I measured them myself. All four suits have not been tampered with. There were no tears."

Gibbs accepted that at face value. He lifted the bag with the gray shred inside. "So where did this come from?"

Dr. Dovely took over the explanation. "The four suits were not the first to be impregnated with the nanites," she said. "There was a previous effort, the goal to prove that the stealth cloth could be cut and sewn into the current version. Since we didn't have as much cloth available and couldn't spend the time or resources on a perfect version, we made a smaller suit that didn't bother covering the hands or feet. Sewing fingers into the suit would have been a waste of resources."

"You were able to test the effect using this preliminary model," Gibbs nodded.

"Exactly."

"And now this prototype is the one that's missing." It wasn't a hard leap to make.

"It's missing," Beck confirmed grimly. "The technology is identical to that of the active suits, and will tell any reasonably competent researcher how to duplicate our findings. This is a disaster," he said unhappily. "If this gets into the hands of enemy intelligence…"

"How long has it been missing?" Gibbs cut in.

Beck was honest. "No one has needed to check on it for over a week. We have the four demonstration models in working order; there was no reason to look at unusable equipment. We've kept the prototype around in case we want to check on something, but no one ever looks at it."

"So it could have been missing for over a week, and you never would have known about it." This put a new spin on things, a spin with unhappy intelligence aspects. Gibbs' mind was already plunging forward, assessing this new information. "Who had access to the prototype?"

"Not many of us," Dovely said unhappily. "I did. Captain Beck. Commander Rickover."

"The four sergeants that I met?"

"The four of them as well," Beck agreed.

"Anyone else?"

"No one."

"I'm assuming that all four of them and the two of you are denying taking anything. Just checking," Gibbs defended his statement. "Ruling out a simple explanation."

"Which cuts straight to the heart of the matter." Beck said it to Gibbs, but it was aimed at Dovely. "One of the six of us is a traitor."

* * *

"Where were you last night, Sergeant Franks?" Gibbs asked.

"At home, sir. Sleeping," Sgt. Franks tacked on, still staring straight ahead.

It was a duplicate, almost to the exact wording, of the interviews of Sergeants Aiello and Rubrovitch. All three maintained the same story: at home, sleeping. No one saw them; each man was single and unattached. It was part of their current assignment, that they temporarily forego companionship beyond that of the squad.

"When did you find out that the prototype stealth suit was missing?"

"This morning, sir. When Captain Beck questioned us about its whereabouts, sir." Short phrases, terse and to the point, punctuated by a surfeit of 'sirs'. Still staring straight ahead.

"Did you take it?"

"No, sir."

"Do you know who did?"

"No, sir."

"Take a guess."

"No one, sir."

Move to a different tack. "Has anyone approached you, sergeant, about stealing the technology?"

"No, sir."

Gibbs doubted that. Technology this important, there would have been enemy intelligence agents moving in the vicinity, looking to see if there were any chinks in any armor. On the other hand, these men would have been selected partly on the strength of their ability to withstand such invitations. Blank disregard of subtle and not so subtle hints was one way to avoid them.

"Has anyone in your unit suggested, either directly or indirectly, that you do so?"

"No, sir."

Again, no surprise. Also, very likely not accurate. Gibbs didn't know any group of anyone who hadn't joked about such things. Not that the average soldier meant it, but jokes were a part of military life, the more pungent the joke the better.

Time for the last piece. "The group in the woods, Sgt. Franks, the one that Commander Rickover's wife belongs to. Are you aware of it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you belong?"

"No, sir." With a hint of faint distaste.

"Have you ever seen them?"

"Yes, sir."

"When?"

"On night maneuvers, sir."

"They're beyond Heisenberg property, sergeant."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you saying that you left Heisenberg property and trespassed on private property, sergeant?"

"No, sir."

"Then how did you see them?"

A hesitant pause. Gibbs knew to wait for it—the other two sergeants had behaved identically. "Field glasses, sir."

"So you were spying on them."

"Tactical surveillance, sir. Monitoring the borders."

"Did you see anything interesting, sergeant?"

Almost a smile. "The group sometimes performs their rituals without clothing, sir."

"Worth spying on?"

"Considering that Commander Rickover's wife was among them, sir: no comment."

"Smart man." It was the same answer that the other two, Aiello and Rubrovitch, had given, which suggested that there had been a pertinent conversation between the four prior to this interrogation. Didn't matter. Gibbs was saving the best for last. "You're dismissed, sergeant. Send in Sgt. Medford."

Gibbs waited for the final member of the four man squad to walk in and seat himself in front of the plain table, the chair creaking under the large man's weight; Gibbs had deliberately allowed Medford to wait for last. The NCIS agent eyed him closely, looking for the resemblance to the late Commander Rickover. Ziva had reported that Mrs. Rickover had confessed to dallying with the man, that the wife's motivation was to conceive a child and that Rickover himself couldn't do the job. Gibbs wondered if he should assign one of the team to follow up on that medical detail with the couple's doctor, and decided that he would, at a convenient time. It would be corroborating evidence, needed for a trial. Right now there was a murder to solve, and a prime suspect had just entered the interrogation room.

Medford was definitely taller than Commander Rickover by a good three inches, but did bear a striking resemblance to Rickover's picture. Both had light brown hair, cut short military style. Broad shoulders, clean-shaven. Medford's eyes looked more hazel than green, but Gibbs was willing to ascribe it to the harsh lighting above their heads. To a desperate wife, it wouldn't matter, and the long and sharp nose would more than make up for it.

Gibbs started the session identically to the previous three. "Where were you last night, Sgt. Medford?"

"At home, sir. Sleeping."

Identical, down to the exact same words. "When did you find out that the prototype stealth suit was missing?"

"This morning, sir. When Captain Beck questioned us about its whereabouts, sir." Short phrases, terse and to the point, once again punctuated by a surfeit of 'sirs'. Still staring straight ahead, doing the same thing that every one else in the squad.

"Did you take it?"

"No, sir."

"Do you know who did?"

"No, sir."

"Take a guess."

"No one, sir."

Move to a different tack, just as he had for the previous three. "Has anyone approached you, sergeant, about stealing the technology?"

"No, sir."

Gibbs let it drop. That wasn't where the knife stab would come from, for this particular sergeant. Gibbs let the interrogation flow just as the others had; Medford would be expecting it. "The group in the woods, Sgt. Franks, the one that Commander Rickover's wife belongs to. Are you aware of it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you belong?"

"No, sir." With the same hint of faint distaste. Gibbs felt a bit of admiration; had all four practiced the line with each other in front of a mirror?

"Have you ever seen them?"

"Yes, sir."

"When?"

"On night maneuvers, sir."

"They're beyond Heisenberg property, sergeant." Same question, same squad of men.

"Yes, sir."

"Are you saying that you left Heisenberg property and trespassed on private property, sergeant?"

"No, sir."

"Then how did you see them?"

A hesitant pause. Gibbs almost applauded the act. "Field glasses, sir."

"So you were spying on them."

"Tactical surveillance, sir. Monitoring the borders."

"Did you see anything interesting, sergeant?"

A hint of a smile. "The group sometimes performs their rituals without clothing, sir."

"Worth spying on?" Casually. Very casually. This was the lead up to the big one.

"Considering that Commander Rickover's wife was among them, sir: no comment."

Again, the same identical answer. Now it was time to toss the grenade in.

"Really? I find your answer surprising, sergeant."

"Sir?" Wary. This was not in the script.

Gibbs was behind the big sergeant, the man seated in a small and uncomfortable chair. Gibbs leaned down so that his lips were all of two inches away from Medford's ears. He spoke distinctly, with no chance of being misunderstood. "How do you think Commander Rickover felt about one of his men trying to tango with his wife?"

"What!" Medford tried to jump to his feet, fists balled.

Gibbs slammed Medford back into the metal chair, the advantage his with already being on his feet and prepared.

"Remain in your seat, soldier!" he barked. "You got a problem with the question I just asked you?"

"Sir! Yes, sir! I am not seeing Mrs. Rickover, sir!" Medford's face had turned beet red.

"Not what I hear, sergeant," Gibbs drawled, well aware of all three field agents standing outside of the interrogation chamber, watching the suspect's reactions through a one way mirror. Observations were being made, comparisons judged. "In fact, I heard that there was a lot of consenting going on between adults. Want to tell me about it?"

"Nothing to tell, _sir!_ "

"Meaning a gentleman doesn't share such stories, sergeant?"

"Meaning that there's nothing to tell, sir!"

"How well do you claim to know Mrs. Rickover, sergeant?" Gibbs started slipping the proverbial knife in through the other side.

"Social occasions only, sir!" Medford was treating this as though it was an enemy interrogation with torturers with rubber hoses in the room next door. Name, rank, and serial number would come next.

"You never saw her outside? Off of the base?"

"No, sir!"

Quick change of subject. "What did you think of _Commander_ Rickover, sergeant?"

Sergeant Medford's jaw worked, but nothing came out.

"Come on, sergeant. You worked for the guy. You like him?"

Medford swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."

"He good to work for?"

"Yes. Sir," was added belatedly.

Good. Medford was getting rattled. The control was slipping. Gibbs was eager to see what would slip out. "He ever bawl your ass out?"

"Yes, sir."

"Bet you must have hated that."

"Deserved it, _sir!_ "

Damn. Back to iron control. Gibbs silently berated himself; these men would be capable of no less. These men trained day in and day out for missions, and would learn how to beat any kind of question and answer session. Something like this would be a walk in a park for them. Gibbs, though, had an ace yet to play. Once again he bent down to whisper in Medford's ear. "Did she like the flowers that you sent her, sergeant? Did you think we wouldn't find out?"

Medford stiffened. "I didn't send her any flowers. Sir."

"She says you did."

"I didn't send her any flowers, sir," Medford repeated. The flush was retreating into a cold and pale white.

"She says that she sent you a note, telling you to stop."

"I have never received anything from Mrs. Rickover, sir."

"Are you saying that Commander Rickover's wife is lying?"

"I didn't send any flowers, sir. I have not received or sent any notes, sir."

"Answer the question, sergeant. Is Mrs. Rickover lying?"

This time Medford did look Gibbs full in the face. His hands were flat on the table in front of him. He kept his voice dead even. "Yes, sir."

* * *

"You realize," Tony said as he snapped another picture, "that this is more suited to McGeek." He took another picture, this time of Ziva bent over and examining the lock to the wall safe.

"You will erase that picture, Tony," Ziva told him, enunciating every word, "before I break something. And that something will not be the camera." She smiled tightly. "We are here, in the place where the prototype suit was stored, because we need to examine the area for clues as to who has stolen it. We are also here," she added, "because Gibbs told us to."

"This is way cool." The third member of their group was Abby Sciutto. "Guys, I never get to go to a crime scene. I only get whatever stuff you guys give me. Do you realize how exciting this is?"

Tony exchanged a tolerant look with his partner. "Ah, to be young again. Abby, you are here because neither Ziva nor I know what half this stuff does, let along if it's been tampered with. For example," and he whacked a large and boxy-looking affair, "this might be designed to emit cathode ray particles, for all I know. Worked for Michael Rennie, in _The Day The Earth Stood Still._ Klaatu, bar—"

"Hey, don't hit that!" Abby protested. "That's a very delicate spectral analysis. You could blow three months' of hard work just by breathing on it!"

"Really?" Tony wasn't impressed. He leaned over and deliberately exhaled, leaving a film of moisture on the largest dial.

"Tony!"

"Ignore him, Abby," Ziva directed, dusting the lock for any prints. "We have a job to do, and a murder to solve. And, since I have tickets to the upcoming concert, I very much wish to complete this case so that Gibbs will not have any reason to forbid me to attend."

"You got tickets to a sold-out concert?" Tony was amazed. "Who'd you mug to get them? That thing has been sold out for weeks."

Ziva gave a smile worthy of the Mona Lisa. "I have friends, Tony. Powerful friends." Another smile. "Embassy friends." One last smile. "Actually, I think they are from someone who wants to try to find out what I am working on, an intelligence agent who is working for one of Hezbollah splinter groups. They want to know what I am doing, and _I_ wish to find out exactly which splinters they have under their fingernails. I will let you know if I enjoy the concert, Tony."

"Cheater," Tony muttered. He rapped his knuckles on the nearest piece of machinery. "I don't suppose—"

"No. I couldn't."

Abby cast a dark glare in Tony's direction. " Be careful with that thing. It's delicate. You could hurt its feelings. And I'll bet you don't even know what cathode ray particles are."

"Not taking that bet, Abby," Ziva said. "I think I've got some fingerprints here."

"Probably from each of our six friends," Tony grumbled. "Chances are pretty low for an outsider to get in through all this security."

"Maybe not." Abby slid a finger along another one of the machines, caressing it. "This stuff looks pretty new. They had to have had it delivered, and then installed. People like Dr. Dovely usually don't do their own installations; they need technicians who know who to hook them up."

Ziva nodded. "You're saying that someone from the outside could have gotten in disguised as a delivery technician."

"Right. Only it wouldn't have been a disguise. He would have had to have been able to do the job, or they'd have found him out pretty quick."

Tony looked around the room. It was actually a small adjunct to a larger working laboratory, most of the room taken up by machinery and the locker where the stealth suits were stored. There was a stool on wheels that could be dragged over for comfort in front of the machinery dials, but no other furniture, and Tony wasn't counting the machinery as furniture. There were no windows. "Any of these newer than the others? Say, in the last two months?"

"We could find out from the delivery records," Ziva said without looking up.

"Fine. Do that."

"You do it."

"I'm senior. You do it."

"I'm busy looking for fingerprints."

Tony sighed. "Which brings us back to square one: where's McGeek?"

A shadow darkened the room: a large person, blocking the light. It was not McGee, but it was Captain Beck, with Dr. Dovely beside him. He was not welcoming. "What are you doing here?" Tight. Not pleased with the NCIS intrusion on his base. "Why wasn't I informed that you would be requesting a visit?"

Tony DiNozzo had been snarled at before, and by people far more frightening than Captain Beck: Gibbs, for one. He straightened—but not too much. "First of all: this is not a visit. This is an investigation, and we are investigating the scene of the crime. This was not a request, which is why you were not informed."  
Beck wasn't about to let up. "You should have gone through channels."

Ziva gave him one of her patented _are you crazy?_ looks. "You are a suspect. You are one of only six people with access to this vault where the theft occurred. You are one of the channels."

"Which means," and Tony rode ruthlessly over Beck's attempted expostulation, "that we don't need your permission to come into this facility." He turned back to Abby. "Anything else you need to see, Abby? Any questions you want to ask?"

"Yes." Abby looked at Dr. Dovely. "Doctor, which machines were just delivered to this room? This looks like a brand new spectral analysis unit, and the diode wave emitter can't be more than a few months old."

Petra Dovely frowned, trying to remember. "I'm not certain. There are records, if you need to know."

"We need to know," Ziva assured her. If Abby thought this might be a pertinent piece of information, then it would be. "Can you get us those records?"

"Howard?" Dovely looked to the head of the facility.

"You'll have them," Beck promised, still annoyed. "Why?"

"There's a possibility that one of the delivery people could have been involved," Tony said. He wasn't required to give Beck an explanation but it would help smooth over the relationship. "Were any of these machines delivered since last week, the last time the prototype suit was known to be in this vault?" He gestured at the open metallic cave in the wall.

Dovely thought. "I don't think so. There was something a few weeks ago, but not within the last week."

Beck overrode her. "I thought that the last piece of equipment was delivered Tuesday." He looked grim. "That would fit within the time frame. I'll have my people retrieve the records and hand them over to you."

"Are you sure?" Dovely asked. "I could have sworn that it was two weeks ago at least."

"We'll find out for certain," Beck said. He scowled at Tony. "Are you finished here?"

"Almost." Tony went back to snapping pictures, making certain to be thorough. It felt good. Childish, but good. One-upmanship: he could be more childish than Beck. "We'll let you know."

* * *

"McGee!"

"Right here, boss." McGee flashed his work up onto the screen on the wall. "Insurance policy on Commander Rickover. Beneficiary: wife. Purchased by someone unknown, although the insurance agent thinks she remembers a husband and wife team coming in. Here's the signature." McGee hurriedly put the next slide onto the screen. "You can see that the letters are garbled—"

"Yes, McGee, I can. Get to the good stuff."

"Right. If you look at the capital here, it looks like a 'M', and this in here could be a 'T' or a 'D', then it could be—"

"Sgt. Medford. Right." Gibbs nodded. "Makes sense. Medford decides to steal the technology and the commander's wife all in one shot, and make a little extra money on the side because he knows that he's going to kill Rickover. The question is: is the wife in on it? Or did Medford get someone else to play Rickover's wife for an insurance scam? And why did Medford kill Rickover? Did Rickover suspect something, and that's why he was there that night?"

"Boss?"

"Another question: is that really Medford's signature?"

"Um…"

"Well, McGee?"

"Sorry, boss. I'll get some samples of Medford's handwriting, and—"

"Today, McGee. Less talk, more action."

* * *

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony saw Abby sidle over to Ziva. The trio had been diverted to the original crime scene by a terse phone call from Gibbs, directing them to proceed to the place of the murder and the ritual area of the 'Wood Sprites'—Abby heard the disgust in Tony's voice that he couldn't disguise as he relayed Gibbs' message—and search the surrounding area for signs of additional personnel, anyone who might have attacked Commander Rickover. The sun was bright and beating down on them, despite the surfeit of foliage doing its best on protection detail.

Abby whispered into Ziva's ear. "Is he always whiny like this when he's out on a case?"

"Worse," Ziva whispered back, not bothering to keep her voice down as low as a whisper could go.

Tony glared. "I heard that."

"Good."

"I'll have you know, Abby, that I am not whining. I am reviewing the case out loud."

"Oh." Abby looked puzzled. "Then why does McGee's name keep coming up? I mean, he's not even here, enjoying the Great Outdoors."

"Exactly, Abby. That's why his name keeps coming up. It's because he's not here, with us, in the Great Outdoors, slapping at mosquitoes." Tony whacked his neck, hoping to catch one of the winged creatures in the act of biting him. "Ow."

"I think this is great," Abby reproved him. "Like, I never get to come out of my lab, unless it's to go to court to testify, and then I have to get all dressed up and everything. I'd rather be out here." She smiled at Tony, teeth bright in the sunlight. "Do you think if I asked Gibbs nicely, he'd let me come to more crime scenes?"

"You could always try," Tony suggested, carefully not letting the _when pigs fly_ thought onto his face. He turned back to the flora and the fauna. _Of course, knowing Abby, she'd probably come up with some reasonable ballistics explanation for flying pigs._ Something caught his eye, something white. He moved in on it.

It was a paper, folded in half, caught between two twigs. A stray breeze had clearly deposited it there. It could have been anything, any simple piece of trash, and yet trash sometimes turned out to be the most amazing treasure. Tony plucked it from its place of captivity and unfolded it.

He sucked in his breath. "Ziva?"

"What is it, Tony?"

"Take a look at this." He held it out to her.

It didn't take her long to read it. "This implicates Mrs. Rickover," she said. "I was right."

"What is it?" Abby asked, leaning over Ziva's shoulder. "Ooh. That doesn't look good, and Mrs. Rickover seemed like such a nice person. That note is from her, inviting her husband for some hay-rolling in the middle of the night." She looked up at the other two. "Do you think that Dawnwind knew about this? What about Sgt. Medford?"

"What say we ask them both?" Tony send his gaze around the rest of the glade. "Let's finish up here, and head back. Ziva, take that side, Abby that corner. I'll hit this side."

They worked in silence for several long moments, searching for additional hints. Then—

"Hey! I think this is something!" Abby called out. "I think I found a footprint, guys!" She dropped to her knees to look more closely, shoving the bush aside.

Tony let Ziva take the lead on this one. The previous print that Abby had found had turned out to be one belonging to something the size of a fox, and Tony had had to bite his tongue to calmly explain that they were looking for something a big larger; something human-sized, perhaps.

Ziva looked over Abby's shoulder. "What are you looking at?"

"Right here. Don't you see it, Ziva?"

"Point it out to me, Abby." Tony marveled at Ziva's patience, and wondered what was going on between the two women. With anyone else, Ziva would have ripped an ear off. Literally.

"Here. This line in the dirt. See how it's depressed? Doesn't that look like a footprint to you?"

"No, not really…" Ziva broke off. Her next words had an entirely different tone to them. "Tony, come look at this."

Tony roused himself, suddenly all business. Abby wasn't stupid. There really was a chance that she had found a footprint. "What do you have? Is it a footprint?"

"No, no footprint." Ziva had dropped to her hands and knees, her head six inches above the ground. "In fact, there are no footprints in this location at all. But there is this." She pointed.

Tony saw it immediately, and he knew the significance. There were three broken and bruised branches. No footprints, but there had clearly been someone or something here, and it was recent. The bruises on the leaves were still fresh.

He estimated the height. "It could be from a bear," he said doubtfully. "There are some around, even this close to civilization. Maybe a deer."

"Both of those would leave tracks, Tony." Ziva dismissed the idea. "There was someone here who was taking pain not to leave evidence."

"Taking pain?" That threw him for a moment, then he caught on. "Taking pains, Ziva. Plural. With an 'S'. Pain is what we're going to give him when we find out who it is."

"Or her," Abby put in. "It could have been a her, Tony. It could have been Dawnwind."

"Who? Oh, her." For the moment, Tony had forgotten the Wood Sprite name of the leader of the little cult in these woods, and he allowed himself another moment of annoyance that Abby had forced him to remember.

"I do not believe so, Abby. Observe the leaves," Ziva told her. "The bruises are too high from the ground for the average woman, and Ms. Terwilliger is not a tall woman. It is not likely that they belong to her. In fact," Ziva added, looking more closely, "I believe that they belong to a taller than average man. Tony, come here," she commanded. "Crouch here." She pushed him down into place, eying the height of the bruised leaves. "I was correct. A tall person made these marks, someone who is likely too tall to be a woman. Tony is of average height—"

"Hey. I resent that remark. There's nothing average about me."

"—of average height, yet these leaves show evidence of someone much taller. The marks are almost a meter high. That suggests someone possibly the height of Sgt. Medford," she added thoughtfully, ignoring Tony. "What was he doing here? Was he waiting for someone?"

"I know!" Abby burst out. "He was waiting for Mrs. Rickover. Commander Rickover discovered him! They fought like animals! Medford kills Commander Rickover, and runs away and hopes that nobody finds out!"

"Nice try, Abbs. This is why Gibbs keeps you in the lab," Tony told her. "When it comes to deciphering technological stuff, you have no equal. When it comes to reading a crime scene, likewise: you have no equal."

"Aw, Tony. That's so nice of you to say," Abby beamed. "So you think I'm right?"

"Nope. Not a chance. When I said no equal, I didn't mean in the right direction. Ow," Tony complained, as Abby socked him in the shoulder. "Abby…!"

"You're mean," she informed him. Then she smiled. "But I love you anyway."

"Thanks, Abbs." Tony winked at her. "And you did find this. Ziva and I would have walked right by this. Right, Ziva?"

"Actually—"

" _Right,_ Ziva?" he insisted.

"Oh. Yes. Right. Very much so, Abby. Excellent work."

"Good. Now, what was Medford doing here?"

"Why am I not right?" Abby wanted to know.

Ziva was the one to explain. "If there had been a fight, Abby, we would have found much evidence here. There would be many bruised leaves, and there would be many broken branches. We are not finding any of that, so we can conclude—"

"—that there wasn't any fight," Abby finished for her. "I get it. So Medford was just sitting here, watching."

"Or waiting," Tony said. "Or maybe he was just passing through."

"Through to where?"

"Let's find out." Tony pulled his weapon out. "Abby, stay between us, okay? We stick together. And be quiet," he added, all amusement gone. He exchanged glances with his partner; Abby Sciutto was hell on wheels in the lab but here, without a weapon and without the training that went into being a field agent, she was a liability. They would have to be careful.

They moved forward. Tony was surprised at how silent Abby was. He expected it of Ziva, a Mossad trained agent, but the Forensics specialist wasn't supposed to be able to move this quietly.

It didn't matter. The trail ended with the brush. With no footprints and no leaves to mark the path, the person who had made the trail had vanished.

Abby pointed. "Maybe he went into that cave over there?"

Tony peered in, his gun at ready. "If he did, he didn't go very far. It's pretty shallow, and the back is solid rock."

Ziva looked around. "This area is pockmarked with caves," she noted. "We could search for days, and not come up with an answer. Perhaps that is why Madam Terwilliger selected this place for her gatherings. If the weather becomes inclement, she can gather in a cave."

" _Hide_ in a cave. You gather berries."

"It is not yet autumn. There are no berries to be gathered."

"No, only fruits." Once again, Tony wondered about the Israeli's command of colloquialisms. Sometimes they seemed a little too deliberate… "Let's go report to Gibbs."

* * *

Elaine Rickover looked very small and frail, sitting alone in the interrogation room. Gibbs took a moment to observe the package before walking in on her.

Small. That was the operative word. Barely five foot two, with light brown silky hair that had been clipped to shoulder length. Commander Rickover would have treasured running his fingers through such hair, Gibbs found himself thinking. The eyes were tiny and spaced far apart. The waist too was narrow, but the whole figure was hour-glass instead of simply lean like a boy's. Mrs. Rickover used that to her advantage, nipping her clothes in at the waist with a belt and allowing her skirt to flare from there.

The eyes were reddened. Too much crying, Gibbs realized. He didn't have much use for the habit himself, but he understood that some women depended on it. One of his wives had; he didn't remember which one and perhaps that was one of the reasons why the wife was an ex instead of cluttering up his life.

Not pertinent at the moment. Gibbs had a purpose for bringing the new widow here, and it wasn't to gain insight into Gibbs' own short-comings as a husband. He walked into the interrogation room. "Mrs. Rickover."

More tears. She tried to control them and failed utterly. Hot drops of salty liquid spilled over, streaking some dark make-up stuff down her cheeks. "Why am I here?"

Gibbs could barely understand her words, but the meaning got through. He stiffened his demeanor. "You're here, Mrs. Rickover, because some very classified technology is missing. That classified technology is what your late husband was in charge of. Do you know anything about that?"

Elaine Rickover lifted her chin defiantly. "No. And neither did my husband. He was a good and honorable man, Agent Gibbs. He wasn't a traitor."

"Nobody is saying that he was, Mrs. Rickover. But someone took that technology, and it's my job to find out who. Was it you?"

She gasped in anger, fury superceding the grief. "No. And I resent you saying that I did." She rallied to her own defense. "I don't even have access to the facility. I can't get in unless Ricky or someone else escorts me. How would I steal anything from there?"

"Someone could have brought it to you," Gibbs pointed out. "It wouldn't be the first time a woman seduced someone into an act of treason."

Mrs. Rickover looked away. "I didn't."

"You had an affair with Sgt. Medford," Gibbs said. "Do you understand where this is going?"

"But I didn't _do_ anything!" she wailed. "I didn't seduce him! He came onto _me!_ The only reason why I even considered it was because Ricky and I couldn't have children! I can prove that—go ask my doctor! We were going to try fertility drugs!"

"Oh, we'll be asking your doctor, Mrs. Rickover," Gibbs promised. "The court order is on the way."

"Good! Maybe then you'll believe me!" She glared at Gibbs. "Nothing happened! I was faithful to my husband! I told Don that I wouldn't see him; we didn't even do so much as hug. I sent him a note," she insisted. "I told him to stop sending me flowers at the shop. He stopped, and that was the end of it. You can ask Dawnwind! She knew everything that was going on! She was _there_ when the flowers were delivered to the shop, and she took my note to Don. Ask her!"

"We will, Mrs. Rickover," Gibbs said. "Believe me: we will." Things were starting to fall into place: a jealous husband, a wife attracted to another man. Insurance policies, probably some sort of connections with the black market. Gibbs couldn't wait to wrap this up so that he could go home and work on his boat, a project much more pleasant than this one.

* * *

It didn't take much to see McGee's face turn to dismay. He set down the phone. "Boss!" he yelled. "We've got another dead body!"

Gibbs was already grabbing his kit, and Tony and Ziva following suit. "Who, McGee?"

"Dr. Petra Dovely. Sniper fire, is the early report. Single shot, straight between the eyes."

"Damn," Tony muttered under his breath to Ziva. "Just when things were starting to fall together."

* * *

"What a waste," Dr. 'Ducky' Mallard told the corpse on the autopsy table. "I suspect that you still had a great deal to offer the world in terms of technology, my dear. All that knowledge and education, gone." He picked up the scalpel. "Oh, hello, Jethro. Come to watch, have we?"

"Hardly, Ducky," Gibbs grunted. "What'cha got for me?"

"Considering that I have yet to begin the autopsy, precious little. Presumptive cause of death: massive cerebral hemorrhage due to a projectile wound to the cortex. Time of death is consistent with the reports of the bystanders on the street. Dr. Dovely was shot while walking from her car to her home. She collapsed instantly, and was quite likely dead before she hit the pavement. If it means anything, I doubt that she even knew what had happened before she died. The 'why' and the 'who', I'm afraid, I must leave to you."

"I need to get the bullet to Abby, Ducky. I need her to run it."

"You shall have it shortly, Jethro, which is the same answer that I gave Ms. Sciutto not five minutes previously."

* * *

"Answers, people. I need answers." Gibbs strode up to his desk. "We now have _two_ dead bodies, and a missing stealth suit prototype. We are _way_ behind the eight ball, and we need to turn this game around." He turned on DiNozzo first. "DiNozzo. Mrs. Rickover. She claims that Medford kept sending her flowers. She says that the head elf can verify that. You're on it. Take—" he broke off, couldn't help the slender grin that seeped out—"take our own elf-lord with you. Find out if and when the flowers came, and if Medford sent them. Ziva, you're with me."

"Where are we going, Gibbs?" Ziva wanted to know.

"We, Officer David, are going to question four highly trained, highly competent marines with excellent marksmanship about their whereabouts at the time of Dr. Petra Dovely's demise."

* * *

Captain Beck was not a happy man, and he was sharing that insight with the lead investigator.

"I'm holding you responsible, Gibbs," he snarled. "Do you realize what this means for this project? Ruined! Years of research, gone in a single instant!"

"You must be devastated at her death," Ziva put in. "Was she well-liked?"

Beck stared at the Israeli officer. "What?"

"Was she well-liked?" Ziva persisted. "It's a fair question. Who would have hated her so much that they wanted her dead?"

Beck picked his jaw up off of the floor. "She was a highly trained researcher, Officer David. She was the target of several enemy agents."

"No," Ziva replied calmly, "she wasn't. If she was their target, they would have kidnapped her and forced her to work on their own projects. Dead, she is of no use to anyone."

"Which means that she was a threat to someone, captain," Gibbs put in. "Care to speculate?"

Beck glared at first one, then the other. "No."

"Oh, I'm sure you must have some ideas, captain," Gibbs needled. "You're a good commander. You know your men."

"Enough to say that not one of them is guilty, Agent Gibbs," Beck snapped back. "Find out who killed Petra Dovely and Commander Rickover. That's your job."

"And we're doing it," Gibbs returned calmly. "Where were you when Dr. Dovely was shot?"

"Me? You can't be serious."

"I'm very serious," Gibbs assured him. "You are one of the six, now five, with access to the stealth technology. My lists of suspects is dwindling, captain, along with my patience. Got an alibi?"

"Yes," Beck replied sullenly. "I was at the officer's club, with at least six colleagues. I can give you their names."

"I'll take them," Gibbs said. "They'll all tell me that you never left the room?"

"I visited the men's room twice."

"Back within five minutes."

"It doesn't take long, Agent Gibbs."

"Just checking, Captain Beck. We'll be asking your men the same questions."

Ziva had one more topic. "Last time we were here, Captain Beck, you were going to look into retrieving the records for the deliveries of the equipment into Dr. Dovely's lab. Have you done so?"

Another glare. "I've been a little busy."

"Never mind," Gibbs told Beck, leaving it up in the air as to whether or not sarcasm was intended. "Officer David and I will take care of it for you. Come along, Officer David. We have some suspects to question."

* * *

What Tony DiNozzo really wanted to say was, "Elf-lord, meet Elf-lord." Somehow, he didn't think that it would go over all that well.

If fact, not much about this interview was going well. The scent of patchouli was overpowering, and not only was it making DiNozzo's eyes water but McGee couldn't stop sneezing. It was, Tony reflected, difficult to sound authoritative while hacking your lungs out and wheezing.

Maybe that was the point.

Melanie Terwilliger, AKA Dawnwind, Mistress of the Circle of Wood Sprites and owner of the original crime scene property, stood there behind the counter in her musty little bookstore, candles lit and enjoying the whole _let's-humiliate-the-Federal-agents_ scene. Her smile made the Mona Lisa's look like a frown.

McGee took it in stride. "Ms. Dawnwind," he greeted her. _Achoo._ "Agent Tim McGee. We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

"I don't suppose it would matter if I did," she returned with a challenge.

"Actually, you're right," McGee admitted, "but for the sake of courtesy I'm willing to pretend that it's otherwise. It's not much, but it's the best that we can do under the circumstances. I understand that Elaine Rickover works for you?"

"Yes."

Which DiNozzo had already covered in his previous questioning and was hardly at issue, but he had already agreed to let McGee handle the interview his way. Tony tried not to bite his tongue. Hiding behind dark glasses helped some. Not much, but some. It covered the red in his eyeballs.

"Good," McGee said, just to make noise. "Mrs. Rickover said that she had been receiving flowers from an admirer recently, and that she received them here in your establishment. Is that correct?"

"Yes, it is. They were lovely. Roses, once, and some assortment another time."

"Who were they from? Where they from her husband?" Leading question.

'Dawnwind' paused to think. Tony watched her closely, thought the pose looked slightly studied. He almost called her on it.

"No," she finally said. "I don't think so. Moonbeam would have told me if they were."

"Did she say who they came from?"

'Dawnwind' gazed deeply upward into McGee's eyes. "No, but they were from a man."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because no woman ever sends another woman flowers like that," she purred.

 _Damn! This woman is a cat in heat all the time! First me, now McGee._

McGee merely went on to his next question. "Did Mrs. Rickover, to your knowledge, ever send this man a note in reply?"

Dawnwind made a moue. "Of course not." She leaned over the counter, letting her vee-cut blouse gape open. "Would you push away someone who found you attractive?"

 _Okay, I want to see what happens if she tries this on Gibbs._

McGee appeared oblivious to the woman's charms. "So you're saying that Mrs. Rickover never wrote him a note declining his advances?"

"If she did, she didn't tell me about it." Dawnwind moistened her lips. "How about you, Agent McGee? Would you decline a lady's advances?"

"Just a few more questions, miss." McGee was now keeping his face in his notepad, but DiNozzo was pleased to see the red creep into Probie's ears. Elf-lady was getting to Elf-lord, and Tony was going to remember this and bring it up at the best possible moment. "Where were you last night?"

"In bed." Direct. Looking straight into McGee's eyes. Well aware of the effect that she was having on him, and on DiNozzo feeling like a voyeur in the corner.

"Can anyone verify your whereabouts?"

"Oh, yes. They were quite enjoyable. I find multiples of three to be so _stimulating._ Don't you, Agent McGee?"

Damn. This was too much to even push around the office. He'd have to tone it down to keep from getting fired himself. Tony found himself grateful that McGee's cell interrupted the flow of the conversation.

"McGee." Pause to let the other end speak. "Right now?" Pause. "Yes, boss. Right now. Not a problem. Should I leave Agent DiNozzo—?" Short pause. "Yes, boss. Bring him, too. Be right there." He closed up his cell. Was it Tony's imagination, or was there relief on McGee's face? "I'm sorry, Ms. Dawnwind, but we'll have to excuse ourselves. Agent DiNozzo and I are needed elsewhere." He wasted no time excusing himself, dragging Tony with him.

Once outside, McGee turned to DiNozzo. "Tony, if you ever say one word about this in the office—"

"Are you kidding, McGee? You and I are both going to enjoy this for a _very_ long time."

* * *

Gibbs was not a happy camper, and he had no compunction about letting his team know it. "I have _two_ dead bodies connected with some missing stealth technology, and no answers! I need information, people! I need to know who wanted Rickover dead, and who killed Petra Dovely. McGee!"

"Boss." McGee sat up straight.

"The records on deliveries of equipment to the Heisenberg Research Facility are strangely missing. The files have been mysteriously deleted. Un-delete them, McGee. I want to know who delivered them, and when, and who deleted the files. Beck thought that someone had been into Dovely's lab within the last week. I want to know if he was right, and if that had anything to do with getting Dovely killed. DiNozzo!"

"Right here, boss."

"Go with McGee to the Heisenberg. Abby says that Dovely was killed with an M25. Find out which of our suspects uses an M25. Get samples, and bring them back for Abby to look at. Ziva!"

"Yes, Gibbs."

"We have conflicting stories. Mrs. Rickover claims that Sgt. Medford sent her flowers and that she sent him a note. Medford denies both. The Terwilliger woman doesn't back up either claim." Gibbs leaned over. "And we don't have any background on the Terwilliger woman. Fix that."

"Yes, Gibbs."

"Well? What are you all waiting for? Waiting to get fired?" he roared.

They fled.

* * *

"I can't work with you staring at my back, Tony."

"Don't let Gibbs hear you saying that, McGeek."

"He's not here, Tony."

"Gibbs sees all, knows all, McGoogle-eyes."

"Then he knows that you're staring at me, doing nothing while I try to get these computers to work."

The chair was uncomfortable. The computers were unhelpful. The personnel was grouchy; McGee had had to resort to threats to prevent the Heisenberg IT people from responding to his NCIS-approved high security password as if it was a cyber-assault by al-Qaida. He hated threatening people. He especially hated threatening IT people, because he was one of them. He shouldn't have had to threaten them; he should have had to merely present his request in order for them to comprehend the need and stay out of his way. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently: yes. Even now he could occasionally see a small flash of a tracking cookie, monitoring his usage. Well, let them. He was after deleted files, and he was betting that whoever thought that they were erasing them didn't realize that the files weren't really destroyed but just placed into a usually inaccessible portion of the main-frame hard drive. Once he located them and perused them to make certain it was what he needed, he could send a copy to his NCIS desk and then the records would be safe, no matter what. Once the copies were safe, McGee himself would avoid Gibbs' wrath. That was of paramount importance.

"I'm not doing nothing. I'm supervising. There's a difference."

"Someday you'll have to explain it to me. Could you stop clinking those bullets? You're distracting me," McGee complained.

Tony banged the bullets together once more. They tinkled with a noise more akin to a peacock squawk than a chirping songbird. There were four of them, one from each M25 that each of the squad members used. Tony had pulled out the guns from each man's locker, the four soldiers looking daggers at him, and fired a bullet from each one. That in itself had been hair-raising: DiNozzo was well aware that all four had the training and the guts to pick up their sniper weapon and place a bullet between his eyes—just as one of them, most likely, had done to Dr. Petra Dovely.

Tony had also gone ahead and checked to make sure that the four remaining stealth suits were still present: they were. Four cat suits of clinging gray fabric, each hanging from a hook in a room that it took two locks and two different passwords to get into. Tony, with a fine feel for the dramatic, asked Sgt. Medford to take him in to inspect. It didn't work out quite the way he expected; instead of one escort, he got four. Each sergeant on the squad went with him. All four verified that the four suits hadn't been disturbed.

Clearly squad morale wasn't what it used to be. Each one was eying the other with the same distrust that they handed off to Tony himself. The future of this project did not look bright. Of course, it didn't look particularly bright now that its head researcher had gotten herself killed, but replacing the grunts would be a given. _Can't trust any of 'em…_

"Got it," McGee grunted in satisfaction. "Here it comes."

"What does it say?" Tony leaned over McGee's shoulder to peek.

"Scrolling down through this past week. Getting up to Tuesday—wasn't that what Dr. Dovely said when you saw her? Last Tuesday was the last time that she or anyone else had seen the prototype suit?"

"That was what she remembered," Tony said. "She also said that she didn't remember anyone delivering any equipment since then. It was Captain Beck who thought that they had."

McGee was still scrolling. "Looks like Dr. Dovely has a better memory than Captain Beck. Here it is: the last piece of equipment delivered to Dr. Dovely's lab was three weeks ago Friday. Some sort of mass spectrometer, if I'm understanding this right."

"Can you tell who tried to erase this?" No plays on McGee's name this time. DiNozzo was serious.

"Give me about a week or two, and I think I can. On the spot: no." McGee typed in some more instructions. "No," he repeated. "It could have been anyone with a password to Heisenberg security. It wouldn't even have to be anyone with a particularly high clearance, either. These are just records to the front gate. Anyone could access them. They probably get erased under normal circumstances after a few months."

"So it could be anyone here, not just anyone associated with the stealth project," Tony mused. "How many projects do they have working here at the same time?"  
"Fifty three active, one hundred twenty six in queue with an anticipated start date of sometime within the next two years—"

"How many people, McGrunt?"

McGee glowered at him. "More than six hundred. Each with their own security pass code."

Tony whistled in dismay. "That many? That could take years to figure out."

"Not really. But it will take the better part of two weeks, less if I can have someone to help. Someone with an IT background," McGee added pointedly.

"Which lets me out." Amazingly enough, Tony ignored the opportunity for a barb against the resident geek. "Can you run our five suspects against it?"

"It'll take a few hours. I'd need to set up the program parameters." McGee looked up. "You want me to go ahead?" He glanced at the clock in the lower right corner of the screen. "I can probably have an answer for you by nine. It's almost five now."

"Quitting time at the zoo." Tony glanced out through the window. "People are starting to leave. Go ahead, Probie," he ordered, making the decision. "I'll report in to Gibbs; see if he and Ziva have made any progress." He pulled out his cell and moved closer to the window, hoping to gain better service. He hit speed dial and held the device to his face. "Boss? Mission accomplished. Uh, no, I don't know who killed Dr. Dovely, but I did get the bullets you requested. McGee has been able to track down the delivery records, and it looks like Dr. Dovely had it right: no deliveries in the last week. We can rule out that avenue for someone stealing the prototype—hey!" he broke off.

"What?" That question came from both the cell phone and from McGee in front of the computer screen.

DiNozzo chose to speak to the person with the ability to fire him on the spot. "Boss, I'm looking at four people leaving the building, only they're not heading for their cars to go home. They're heading cross country. In fact, they're headed toward the border of Madam Elf Lady's property."

"Is it four of our suspects, DiNozzo?"

"I can't tell for certain, boss, not from here, but it sure looks like it. McGee?" he asked, feeling more than seeing his team mate coming up from behind to look.

"I agree with you, Tony. Not enough for a positive ID, but enough so that it has me concerned. Shall we go after them?" McGee raised his voice so that he could be heard on Tony's cell.

"No! There are four of them, and only two of you, and those four are marine Special Ops. Stay right where you are; Ziva and I will join you shortly. Oh, and Tony?"

"Yeah, boss?"

"Check out the suits again. Make sure that they're where they're supposed to be. In fact, I want you and McGee guarding them. Understand, DiNozzo?"

"Guard the suits, boss. Got it. We'll wait here for you." He paused. "Uh, you know, boss, that our cells won't work inside the facility next to the lab where the suits are. Too much building to try to get through."

"Not a problem, DiNozzo. I'm calling for a squad of MP's to take over. In the meantime, I don't want those suits going anywhere. Stay there until you get relieved by the MP's. You got me?"

"Got it, boss. Staying right here." Tony disconnected the cell call. He turned to McGee. "Sounds like Gibbs is onto something."

"I sure hope so. Because we're not going anywhere fast, Tony." McGee glanced at the computer screen longingly.

"I tell you what, McGaffer," Tony offered. "I'll check out the suits. Since I just left 'em, I don't think that they've gone far. You stay here and work on your computer program. No matter what Gibbs has got, we're gonna need that info."

"Actually, it won't take me all that long to program in the parameters," McGee agreed. "Once I've done that, I can let it run by itself for a while. In fact," he said, warming to the subject, "I can probably access the program file from a computer in Dr. Dovely's lab. I don't want to set it up there—those computers will undoubtedly end up someplace classified, and we need to have something for evidence for a trial—but I can use her computer to monitor the progress. I should be along in about twenty minutes."

"Don't get lost," Tony told him, inwardly pleased to get away from the singularly uninteresting site of McGee typing on a computer keyboard.

* * *

"I keep telling you, Ziva: Gibbs is psychic. He always comes down whenever I have something to tell him." Abby waved at the silver-haired man coming in through the door to her lab. "And here he is."

"What have you got, Abbs?"

"You mean, what have _we_ got, Gibbs." Abby waved at Ziva, giving the other woman her due. "We're doing a McGee." She pointed at the computer screen which was flashing facial recognition pictures faster than the eye could follow. "Ziva found that Melanie Terwilliger didn't exist prior to three years ago."  
Gibbs let one corner of a smile quirk upward. "I thought her name was Dawnwind, or something like that."

"She doesn't deserve the name, Gibbs," Abby told him seriously. "If Ziva and I are right, then there's something fishy going on in that Circle, and it's not a real Circle. If it's not a real Circle, then she doesn't deserve the name. Save it for somebody better."

"Ziva?" Gibbs turned to the other half of the team.

"I have investigated Ms. Terwilliger's previous address, Gibbs," Ziva said. "The local records in Connecticut, where she claimed to be from, do not show any address such as she listed. Neither does her name appear in any state registry of Connecticut. I obtained a set of her fingerprints—" Gibbs chose not to ask how Ziva had gotten those—"and her prints were not legible enough to run."

"Not legible enough?"

"No. Apparently her prints have been exposed to something so that the ridges and whorls are no longer deep enough to generate prints. Abby was not able to run them. That made us suspicious, so we attempted to identify her in another fashion."

"We went another route, Gibbs," Abby announced. "Melanie Terwilliger appeared on the scene about three years ago, so we set our sights on female international people of interest who disappeared from our radar anywhere from two to four years ago, just to make sure that we included all the right people. We're running facial recognition programs right now."

"Nice work, ladies," Gibbs said, meaning it. "How long?"

"Not much longer, Gibbs," Abby assured him. "In fact, it should be coming up…now!"

Pictures still flashed across the screen.

"Now!" Abby tried again.

Same results.

"You don't do this for McGee," Abby scolded her equipment. "Why are you doing this to me? Don't you like me?"

It worked. The computer stopped on a dark-haired woman that they all recognized: Melanie Terwilliger. Only the name on the computer screen was different: Marina Smirnakov.

More details followed: affiliation with several shadowy militant groups, more likely an associate with a large weapons dealer, exact dealer as yet to be determined; possibly trying to achieve dealer status herself, instead of merely supplying them.

"This makes perfect sense," Ziva said grimly. "She would kill to get her hands on the stealth technology that Dr. Dovely has developed."

"She already did kill," Gibbs reminded her. "We have two dead bodies. That's assuming that she did the killing, and not someone else." He looked at Ziva. "Let's pick her up. Fast, before she runs."

"Quickly," Ziva added, "before the concert tonight. Or did you forget that I have tickets?"

* * *

It had actually taken him closer to half an hour to finish inputting the search data parameters into his program, but McGee was well satisfied with his work. He had instructed the program to search the records for deliveries during the week in question, asking it to include _any_ delivery, not just those destined for Dovely's lab where the safety locker for the stealth suits was located. Next: cross-match with the five suspects, seeing which of them was present during the deliveries. After a moment's thought, McGee added in a side program to send the personnel jackets of the five suspects to his personal computer back at NCIS headquarters. Which of the five would have the education and computer know how to do something like this? Erasing files wasn't difficult on a single computer—the delete key was one of the most over-used buttons on the keyboard—but to erase it throughout the system was a step up from playing solitaire all day long.

He rose from the uncomfortable chair and stretched, taking one last moment before ambling off down the corridor toward Dovely's lab where Tony was waiting. Guard duty: how wonderful. McGee wondered how long it would be before Gibbs would be able to round up a squad of MPs to take over the detail. McGee wasn't holding out much hope. From what he'd heard, most of the military police of every service was vying for overtime to cover the concert tonight. _If you can't get tickets, work the gig,_ was their motto. He glanced at his watch: well past five. Everyone had already vamoosed for the day, ready to spend an evening sitting in front of the tube in mindless relaxation. Even the number of guards was reduced, as befitted after hours needs.

The lab was on another level. McGee took the elevator up, deciding not to take the stairs. It was going to be a long night, and he didn't need the exercise. The elevator doors opened out onto the floor, and McGee stepped out onto the linoleum tiles.

 _Bang!_

McGee froze.

It sounded like a gun. It shouldn't be a gun; the Navy had strict rules about the discharge of firearms inside a research facility. But it sounded like a gun. Given the circumstances, McGee decided that he would classify it as a gun unless and until he knew otherwise. He drew his own weapon and hugged the wall, inching forward and listening with both ears wide open.

It came from Dovely's lab, and that was where DiNozzo was, guarding the stealth suits as per Gibbs' orders. This did not sound good. DiNozzo was justifiably well known for his limitless supply of practical jokes, but playing a prank like this—something that could get someone's head blown off—was not in the man's nature.

Which meant something very _very_ wrong was going down.

McGee listened harder, inching forward silently. There—he could just barely hear voices.

One of them was DiNozzo. "I suppose…this is the part…where I say…you're not getting away…with this."

 _Make that 'wrong' a definite._ By the sound of it, McGee had correctly diagnosed the origin of the 'bang' and the bullet had lodged itself in or possibly gone through McGee's partner. That suggested—rather strongly—that the perpetrator of the _bang_ had something to do with the disappearance of the prototype stealth suit.

"On the contrary, Agent DiNozzo," returned another voice. "I _am_ getting away with it. I realize the line is trite, but it is accurate." There was a pause, and McGee heard steps. Something creaked—the door to the locker where the stealth suits were kept? The voice spoke again, and this time it didn't sound nearly as smug. "Where the hell did you put them, DiNozzo? Answer me, because there's very little keeping you alive right now."

Who was it? McGee wasn't certain. He hadn't heard the five suspects enough to be able to distinguish between them, although after this he was absolutely positive that he'd be able to identify the voice.

Now to turn the situation around. Gun in hand, he stepped forward.

"Federal agent. Freeze!" he barked, lining his weapon up with the perpetrator.

 _More_ than satisfactory. McGee stared. "Captain Beck!"

It was indeed the captain, head of the Heisenberg Research Facility, holding a gun on Tony DiNozzo. Tony himself was on the floor, holding onto his leg in a vain attempt to prevent blood from leaking out of the calf and consciousness out of his head.

It didn't phase McGee for long. The gun in his hand didn't waver. "Put the gun down, captain," he instructed.

Beck didn't comply. "Back off, son, if you don't want your partner's brains to end up splattered all over the wall."

McGee tried not to gulp. This was the moment that he'd dreaded all through field agent training. It was one of the reasons that he'd specialized in computers, so that moments like this wouldn't happen to him. He knew what to do, he'd done it in practice. Don't let the perp get away with the national treasure. A single agent's life wasn't worth the thousands or millions of Americans who might die if the criminal was allowed to have his way. Shoot the bastard, never mind the consequences.

It was a lot harder in real life.

"Shoot, McGee!" Tony ordered, his voice harsh with pain. "Shoot him!"

Could he do it? The gun was rock steady. The bullet would pierce Beck's head through the ear. Death would be almost instantaneous.

Almost. It wouldn't be fast enough to save Tony's life. Beck's finger would jerk, and Beck's gun would empty itself into Tony's own head. Tony would never again call him 'McGeek." Would never drum on his desk to some unheard tune. Would never again regale them with tales of some forgotten movie great from the past.

 _He would die in the service of his country._

McGee felt his finger tighten on the trigger, preparatory to taking the shot.

A hard and cylindrical object poked him in the spine. A deep voice whispered into his ear, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

McGee stopped dead. Where had that come from—?

A long arm—covered in gray stealth cloth—reached around to relieve McGee of his gun. Even in the evening light of the after hours corridors, the arm was difficult to focus on. "Good," the voice chuckled, and the body came around to where McGee could see it.

See it—more or less. Less, McGee decided. Ziva had told him of her experience with the stealth suit, but this was McGee's first time to actually see it, and he used the word 'see' with a great deal of leniency.

The only thing clearly visible was the man's face when he pulled the hood off of himself. The rest of the large man could only be seen as a vague outline, shimmering back and forth, difficult to keep his eyes on. The man—it was Ben Aiello. McGee recognized him from the photos and Gibbs' own interrogations—put McGee's gun down on the table, too far away for either McGee or DiNozzo to get to it.

DiNozzo drooped, finished, his back against the corridor wall in more ways than one. "You should have shot him," he muttered wildly.

"Wouldn't have helped, Tony," McGee told him quietly, and turned to Beck. "He's right, you know. Gibbs knows that we're here. He'll be on his way. He's already sending for MPs to guard the stealth suits."

"I wish him luck," Beck said with a certain bitterness. He gestured to the locker. "They're not here. Where are they, Aiello? I checked on them not an hour ago, with DiNozzo here."

"The suits are with the rest of the squad," Aiello answered. "I couldn't stop them. They decided to go and monitor the coven, see if they could find out anything."

Beck swore. "Damn. Just what we didn't need." He glanced around automatically, trying to come up with a new plan on the spot. "Time to cut our losses. Let's go." He gestured with the gun. "You," he said to McGee. "Help your friend. We're leaving."

"Why don't we just leave them here?" Aiello wanted to know. "Shoot them, stuff them into the locker, and move out?"

"Because, as they said, Gibbs is headed in this direction," Beck answered. "He's closing in on us. We need to delay him and the rest of his team. Without dead bodies, they'll look around for clues and that will give us more time to escape." He glanced around again, as if someone had appeared in the last fifteen seconds. "We're going to need all the time we can get, especially if Franks, Medford, and Rubrovitch are in the area. Any way to pull them out of the field and get their suits?"

"Radio silence," Aiello grimaced, shaking his head. He gestured to the two NCIS agents. "How are we going to get these two past the guards?"

"Leave that to me." Beck turned back to the 'trouble-makers'. "You. McGee, your name is? The four of us are going out through the front gate. I am going to go first and get my car. The two of you will go next with Sgt. Aiello, and the three of you will take your car to my car around the corner and get in. There are two guards on duty at the front gate, both eighteen year old kids putting in their time to earn some college benefits from the military. You are going to tell them that your buddy here sprained his ankle. If either one of them becomes suspicious, Aiello will shoot them on the spot, and we will still be leaving with you. Their deaths will not change my plans one iota. I would rather not kill them, but I will if you make me. Do you understand?"

Not happy. "Yes."

Aiello bared his teeth. "Don't get any ideas, Agent McGee. I train for this sort of work every day. Killing you two and the guards would be child's play."

Beck kept on going. "You. DiNozzo. Are you going to play along? Or do I shoot those two kids?"

DiNozzo glared. "I'll play." _Just don't turn your back on me,_ was the unspoken part of his response.

"Good. Hand over your weapons, and your cell phones." Beck collected the items, patting down the NCIS agents to make certain that nothing got left behind. He paused at McGee's pant leg, feeling the hard bulge. "Pocketknife?"

"No. Multi-purpose computer tool."

At Beck's blank look, DiNozzo sourly elaborated. "He's the computer geek, remember? Leaps giant computer monitors in a single bound?"

McGee glared at Beck in disgust. "If you want it, take it. Somehow I don't think that being able to install more memory into a laptop is going to get me out of this."

"I'll pass." Beck waved it away. "Pick up your friend. Make it look like he sprained his ankle."

"That'll be a little hard with the blood dripping down into my shoe," Tony observed, "but hey—it's your party." He extended his hand to McGee. "C'mon, McGee. Let's blow this joint. Wouldn't want to upset Captain Beck's well-laid plan."

"Yes, we would," McGee said. He grabbed Tony's arm, pulling the man to his one good leg, helping him to balance. "Can you do this?" he asked, as Tony tried—and failed—to put weight on the limb with the bullet hole in it.

"Sure," Tony groaned, clutching McGee's shoulder. "Just peachy."

"Hang on," McGee instructed, sliding his arm around Tony's waist. "Try not to pass out on me." Another sour glance at their captors. "Might make the guards uneasy."

McGee managed to get his partner to the front entrance, blessing the fact that the elevator was part of the trek instead of needing to force the man down several flights of stairs, step by step. Beck led the way with Aiello mere inches behind McGee. Aiello had donned his street attire once more, the military fatigues covering the gray stealth suit completely, just one of the many military grunts who worked here. His ID badge, McGee noted, was present but turned over so that the name couldn't be seen. Aiello's jacket, however, hung casually over his arm, concealing the handgun that Aiello had pointed at McGee's back.

There was no chance of escape, certainly not that McGee could see. His only chance, for he and DiNozzo, was to play along and stall for time. _Time for what? Gibbs to discover that we aren't where he told us to be? Then what? Gibbs will call and find out nothing, because both of our cells are hidden inside the suit locker and turned off. He won't know where to look for us._

The guards at the front gate were just as Captain Beck had described, and McGee had no doubt that Beck had managed it that way. It would have been easy for him: a caring commander of this research facility allows most of the security contingent to have the night off in order to work the concert scheduled for this evening and pick up some well-needed overtime as well as listen to a popular band play. Beck probably had chosen this night to end his charade for just that reason.

Captain Beck left first. From the entranceway, Aiello behind the pair with a gun hidden under a jacket, watched as the captain greeted the guards, spent a bare five seconds passing the time of day, and walked off to where he kept his car, a parking spot with a sign over it letting everyone know that Captain Beck was entitled to a choice parking spot due to his rank. The over-large black sedan rumbled quietly into action and disappeared around the corner.

McGee cast a glance at Tony's face: white. White, with beads of sweat popping up at the hairline and the eyes going glassy. He didn't look good, and letting the man pass out in front of the guards would be worse. It could lead to a shower of lead. McGee spoke up. "Got a chair?" he inquired of Sgt. Aiello. "I think my partner could use it."

"Bench. Right there."

A flash of an idea hit McGee. Could he pull this off? Just the right moment, with Aiello off kilter thinking that McGee had his hands full with Tony and not able to do anything more than lower the man onto the bench, not without alerting the two guards outside as the sound of a gunshot would surely do. Close up, sure, the two guards wouldn't have a chance. A trained special ops as good as Aiello certainly was could take them out without thinking twice. But give two soldiers a heads' up, and walking out of here wouldn't be a reality for Aiello, who would then finger Beck.

Of course, McGee didn't give much for his and Tony's own chances of getting out of here alive, but wasn't that in the job description? To give their lives in the service of their country?

Aiello moved in, ostensibly to help DiNozzo onto the bench. The arm with the jacket 'carelessly' tossed over it moved forward. Aiello caught McGee's eyes with a dead fish stare: _don't even try it._

Aiello knew. He knew what McGee was planning, knew how to prevent it, had taken the time to prepare for it. He let the jacket slip forward, exposing a silencer on the handgun beneath the cloth. One wrong move, and Aiello would _quietly_ take out the guards who were both standing in a perfect position for Aiello to shoot. He would do that first. Both would slump to the ground with no one around to see them do it. Aiello could drag them back inside their guard booth—or, more likely, force McGee to do it—and they would be on their way with two more of America's finest headed for Ducky's table. Then he would kill DiNozzo and McGee and hide their bodies as well before making a clean getaway.

 _Damn._

McGee allowed his shoulders to slump a fraction of an inch, letting Aiello know that the message had been received. No escape this time…

Tony bit his lip as McGee hoisted him back to vertical, trying not to put any weight on his 'sprained ankle' and trying not to pass out at the same time. It was an effort, that McGee could easily see. Both of the guards watched curiously as McGee and the oh-so-solicitous Sgt. Aiello helped put him into the back of DiNozzo's car. At Aiello's gesture, McGee took the wheel, driving the three around the corner from the facility to park in a spot where Beck was waiting for them.  
McGee transferred DiNozzo into Beck's car, wishing that there were someone around to watch what was happening or to send for help. Mixed blessing; no one around to help—or to get killed.

Beck, already behind the wheel of his vehicle, a sleek and expensive black sedan that cost as much as a small condo and had a similar amount of room inside, put the car into drive and smoothly pulled out. The engine purred beneath the hood, with enough power in it, McGee decided, to make any chase a challenge. Aiello, next to Beck, turned around in the front seat so that he could monitor the behavior of the two NCIS agents, the silenced handgun a non-verbal threat.

They were safely away from the Heisenberg Research Facility when DiNozzo coughed, clearing his throat. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

"Don't tell me; let me guess: the property right outside the research facility. And we're taking the long way 'round," DiNozzo added, leaning back against the seat. McGee favored him with a look; Tony's color was improving now that he was off his feet, but McGee doubted that it would last.

"You got it," Aiello told them. He pointed the gun at them significantly. "So sit back and enjoy the ride. It's going to be the last one you ever take."

* * *

"She knows that we're here, Gibbs." Ziva handed off the field glasses to the senior agent. "She is no longer observing her environment. She is aware of our presence."

"You're right, Ziva," Gibbs agreed, zeroing in on Dawnwind, AKA Melanie Terwilliger, AKA Marina Smirnakov. "We've been made. Question is: what's she going to do about it?"

The suspect in question paused in the packing of her car and took a moment to scan the neighborhood, stretching her back as if her muscles were aching from the work of carrying heavy boxes. She had left the door open to the small condo that she lived in, and one of the local cats was investigating, trying to decide if it was bold enough to enter the inviting interior. Interesting, Gibbs sighed, that the suspect looked in every direction except the one directly at the NCIS agents. _Oh,_ yeah, they'd been made.

"What are we going to do about it, Gibbs?" Ziva asked. "Do we take her down?"

"On what charge?" Gibbs grouched. "We can hold her, we can question her, we can deport her, but that's all. We don't have any solid links tying her to either murder. And we still have a missing prototype stealth suit," he added. "We need that. The stealth suit is the priority."

"Could she have it among her belongings?"

"Maybe, but I don't think so," was Gibbs' opinion. "Would you, in a situation like this? Or would you have it hidden some place where no one else could find it?"

"Or she may not have it at all," Ziva thought. "As the buyer, perhaps she is still waiting to take delivery?"

"That sounds more likely," Gibbs said. "If I were her and I had it in my possession, I'd already be running."

"Unless she just received it."

"Unless she just received it," Gibbs agreed, "which brings us back to the original question: what do we do here and now?" He weighed his options, not liking any of them. "Let's back off," he decided. "Get one of those satellite do-hickeys to keep track of her. Let's see if we can figure out where she's going."

"'Satellite do-hickeys'?" Ziva repeated, a small smile crossing her face. "You mean, 'McGee stuff'?"

"Right. 'McGee stuff'. Whatever. Get them to watch where she goes." Gibbs allowed the Israeli agent to pull his leg while he continued to monitor the behavior of the enemy.

Ziva eyed the light level outside the car doubtfully. "It is growing dark, Gibbs. It is likely that the satellite eye in the sky will not be able to maintain adequate surveillance."

"True. But they can let us know when she takes off, and I'm betting that it'll be shortly after we leave. She'll skedaddle, hoping that we haven't gotten a back up in place."

"Do you know where she will go? It could be anywhere, Gibbs: the airport, a train station…"

"I'm betting that it's somewhere else," Gibbs told her. "Let's see if I'm right."

* * *

"How much further are you going to make us go?" McGee snarled. DiNozzo, his arm barely hanging onto McGee's shoulder, was almost unconscious. McGee hitched him up straighter, trying to support more of the man's weight.

"I can always kill you right here," Aiello offered.

DiNozzo roused himself. "I hate caves," he mumbled, sagging into McGee's grasp even as he tried to hasten his steps.

"Not too far," Beck replied, almost cheerfully. "And no, I don't intend to kill you unless you make me. I have a far better use for you."

"What is it?" McGee couldn't help asking.

"I'd be interested in that myself." Aiello sounded casually suspicious—and dangerous.

"The buyer has let me know that there's a terrorist cell located a few hundred miles from here that's looking to do a little fear-mongering. They've kept a pretty low profile up to now but seem to think that kidnapping and torturing a couple of local cops would be a good way to strike fear into the area, something like what's being done in the Middle East." Beck gestured at the two NCIS agents. "If two locals are good, I figure that two NCIS agents would be even better, with the added attraction of pulling attention away from you and I as well as adding a few thousand dollars to line the proverbial purse. What do you think that Agent Gibbs will believe when this pair turn up on the local news channel a couple of states over?"

Aiello nodded his head. "Not bad," he admitted. "If we give 'em our dog tags and let 'em drop those at the site where the two bodies are, everyone will think that we've been captured and killed as well, just that our bodies haven't shown up yet. It'll help us to disappear."

"Good thought," Beck approved. "Win-win situation. I'll suggest it to her." He gestured to the two NCIS agents. "In there."

'There' was a deeper pocket inside the large cave that they'd already entered. McGee didn't want to even try to estimate how far down they'd traveled already; it had been almost twenty minutes of crawling over rocks and small rivulets of moisture, dragging DiNozzo along with him. It was a toss up, McGee decided sourly, as to whether he wanted to simply throw DiNozzo over his shoulder or not. Either solution would end up with the two of them toppling down to the water-slick floor of the cave.

The cave pocket that Beck had dumped them into was large enough to qualify as a master bedroom, without the requisite furniture. A large boulder along one side of the cave was the only feature, if one didn't count the several crates that lined up beside it. The shadows leaped out tall in the light of the electric torch that Beck carried.

On top of one crate was a small bag with a trace of gray cloth hanging out. McGee tried not to stiffen: it had to be the prototype that had been stolen!

Aiello hurried them both along with a small shove. "Down on the floor," he ordered. "Hands behind your back." He tugged out a long hank of rope from one of the crates. "Can't have you going anywhere," he smirked, "and I wouldn't bother screaming if I were you. It's a long way to the surface, and the captain and I will be in the next cavern over. We'll hear you long before we see you try to crawl out."

"Just hurry it up," Beck advised, now finally showing a hint of nerves. "She'll be along any moment."

Aiello finished tying up McGee, putting an elaborate knot onto the ropes around his ankles and tugging at the wrist bindings to make sure that they were tight. "One down, one to go." He yanked at DiNozzo's feet to pull them together, forcing out a groan from the injured man. "This one'll be easy."

* * *

Ziva was riding shotgun in Gibbs' car, headphones to one ear, listening to the reports coming in. "ComSec reports that the subject has left her residence," she told him, eyes staring straight ahead at nothing. "Subject has entered her vehicle. Subject is putting on her seatbelt—"

"Just the roads, Ziva. I don't need to know how safe a driver she is."

"In another hour or two, such skills will be irrelevant," Ziva muttered under her breath. It was a promise more than a prediction. "Have Tony or McGee called in yet?"

"Not yet. Lieutenant Commander Lord promised me that he'd get a squad of MPs out there before nine to relieve them. He'll tell 'em to meet us close to where she lands."

"It's already eight, Gibbs."

"Then Lord doesn't have much more time, does he?"

* * *

"You had to go and get yourself shot," McGee grumbled, fumbling with the ropes that encircled his wrists. He wasn't able to see in the almost total darkness, but that didn't matter. His hands were behind him, and he wouldn't have able to see them in the first place. "Ow! These rocks are sharp." He glared at his partner, covering up the worry with anger, not caring that the glare was wasted through lack of light. "You were guarding the locker, for Pete's sake. Didn't you look to see who was coming?"

"Sorry if I didn't expect the officer in charge of a naval research facility to walk around the corner and shoot without warning me that he was coming," DiNozzo snarled back.

Lying down, not having to move, had done a world of good for the man, McGee noted. DiNozzo sounded a lot stronger, a lot less likely to simply pass out from lack of blood and pain. Not that it would be of any long term help since Beck's plan called for the torture and death at the hands of a hidden terrorist cell located in a nearby state, but little things such as the temporary reprieve were what McGee and DiNozzo had to be satisfied with. "Big deal. There wasn't anything in that locker. You were guarding an empty room. How apropos."

"Those suits were there an hour ago, Probie. How was I supposed to know that the Squad from Hell took them for a joy ride?"

"Let's see: they were suspects. They're all expert marksmen, expert in stealth even before putting on their new gray jammies. Any one of 'em could have off-ed their commander, and Dr. Dovely beside—"

"All right, all right!" DiNozzo growled. "Next time I'll put you in charge of guarding the stealth suits." He paused. "Do you think that Gibbs knows yet?"

"All depends on how fast the MPs get there."

"Which means: probably not." DiNozzo lapsed into glum silence. "McGee…" He trailed off. Then: "Tim…"

"You actually know my first name?"

Moment gone. "Look, _Probie,_ all I'm saying is that if you get a chance to escape, then take it," DiNozzo ordered.

"Frankly, Tony, I intend to."

"Oh." Pause. "You do?"

"Yes."

Scritching noises in the dark.

"I hope that's not a rat, McMousetrap."

"So do I, Tony. I don't think it's a rat."

"Do you know what a rat sounds like?"

"No."

"Then how do you know that it's not a rat?"

"Because," and McGee grunted with effort, "it's me."

Suspicious. "What are you doing, McGeezer?"

Something bumped up against DiNozzo, and he almost yelped in surprise.

"Hush up, Tony. It's only me," McGee ordered. "Can you feel your hands?"

"No. But I can feel my wrists. They hurt. The circulation is cut off."

"Well, you better _start_ feeling something. Dig into my pocket."

"What's in your pocket?"

"My multi-use computer tool."

"Hate to break it to you, McGeek, but there's no computer in here with us. Wish there was. I could use the light from the screen. No, on the other hand, maybe I don't want light. If there are rats in here, I'd rather not know it. Ever see the movie _Ben,_ McGizzard? Hundreds and thousands of rats, crawling all over you—"

"Get out the tool, DiNozzo."

"Why?"

"Because it's got a wire stripper on it. Hey, that tickles!"

"Sorry. I'd offer to keep my hands to myself, but I don't think that's really called for here. Got it!" he grunted. "Which one of these things will cut through rope?"

"Try the third one in. It's pretty—"

"Ow!"

"—sharp," McGee finished. "Getting the feeling back in your hands, Tony?"

Another glare wasted in the dark.

* * *

"What do you mean, they aren't there?" Gibbs roared. "Where the hell are they?"

Ziva didn't need to transfer that question into her cell phone. The sheer volume crossed the intervening distance without benefit of cell towers.

"Commander Lord states that he arrived at the Heisenberg Research Facility and found that both Tony and McGee left at approximately six o'clock," she said, repeating the information that Lt. Cmdr. Lord was giving her. "He questioned the privates on guard duty in front, and found that Agents DiNozzo and McGee left in the company of another man. Neither private knew the other man's name."

"One of the sergeants?"

"Possibly."

"Which one?"

Ziva's silence gave the answer as clearly as if she'd spoken.

"Could it have been someone else?"

"That is also a possibility, Gibbs. Neither guard saw the man's name tag, nor is the exiting signature legible."

Gibbs groaned in disgust. "The suits?"

"Also missing."

"Get DiNozzo on the phone," Gibbs ordered. "Ask him why he isn't where I told him to be." More concern. "See if he answers. And then try McGee."

Ziva pushed the buttons. "Voice mail," she reported, and then spoke into the phone. "Tony, this is Ziva. Call me or Gibbs back immediately."

* * *

"I think that was my artery you cut. I feel blood dripping out of my wrist."

"It's your own fault, McGyver. Who ever told you that you could escape using a multi-purpose computer tool?"

"If you have a better idea, Tony, I'm open to it. Ow!" McGee complained. "That really did hurt."

"Sorry." Tony didn't sound sorry at all. 'Frustrated' and 'scared' covered the emotions with a great deal more accuracy. "I…think…I've…got it. There!"

"Finally." McGee reached around, feeling for Tony's hands in the dark. "Give me the damn tool so I can free my feet."

DiNozzo went for a more serious tone. "Remember what I told you, McGee. Get the prototype suit and get out of here. Don't try to pull me out; I'll only get you caught again. This is national security, McGee."

* * *

Gibbs straightened up, rubbing his fingers together. "Blood."

"Whose?" Ziva didn't voice the names that she feared were the recent owners of the blood.

"Good question." Gibbs looked around. The locker where the stealth suits had been kept was, as Commander Lord had said, empty. There was a single bullet casing that had rolled to one side of the corridor, and there was a smear of blood nearby, trickling from knee height on the wall down to the floor. The locker wasn't large, but it was the size of a small dressing room. There were four cabinets where each suit had been locked, and each cabinet drawer was empty. That was something that Gibbs had verified, first thing, using latex gloves in case someone had foolishly left fingerprints behind. Gibbs didn't think so. Gibbs fully expected to find only the fingerprints of the suspects, and the deceased.

There were two full size mirrors in the room as well, for the wearers of the suits to admire themselves in before the suit caused them to vanish into the dusk. If all four suits had been stolen? Gibbs didn't want to contemplate that scenario. Just having the prototype in the hands of the enemy was bad enough.

It sounded as though it did need to be contemplated. Bottom line: no one knew where the four suits were, and the inventor of the stealth technology was dead. If that wasn't the definition of a disaster, then Gibbs would need to conduct a discussion with a dictionary. He focused on the lieutenant in their midst, the man in charge of facility security. "Has anyone tried to reach Captain Beck?"

"Yes, sir. No answer, sir."

"You call his house?"

"Yes, sir. Mrs. Beck hasn't seen the captain yet, sir. Says he's late coming home, sir." The sergeant knew the stakes as well.

Which meant two possibilities: either Beck was in on it, or the perpetrators had taken him along with DiNozzo and McGee. That his men had been kidnapped was obvious to Gibbs; neither one would have left the facility unless forced, and the blood tended to bolster that opinion. Getting a sample to Abby would help narrow down who it belonged to, but that could wait. Priority: locate and acquire those suits. Much as he cared about his team, Gibbs knew that national security demanded the return of the technology before anyone else could get their hands on it.

Gibbs turned to Commander Lord. "I'm going to need the use of your men, commander. We're going to go on a little hunting trip."

Commander Lord, a youngster with more than a little intelligence gleaming in dark brown eyes, smiled tightly. "Yes, sir."

* * *

There was almost no light, but by now both sets of NCIS eyes had adjusted to the lack and the crates and the boulder stood out dimly in the meager glow seeping in from the cave next door.

"You need to get moving," DiNozzo hissed. "That's the priority, Probie! Get the damn suit back to Gibbs."

"Hush up. You want them to hear us?" McGee scolded. "Here. Bite down on this."

"What are you doing?" DiNozzo was suspicious.

"I'm going to move you into a better spot, and I don't trust you not to make a lot of noise before you pass out."

"I'll have you know—" DiNozzo's voice cut off with a groan as McGee tried to hoist him up. The groan dwindled away into nothingness, and the body in McGee's arms went limp.

"Tony? Tony?" McGee bit his lip. "At least you won't feel this."

* * *

"You see anything?" Gibbs took down his field glasses, the things almost useless in the dark.

They were back on the private property outside of the Heisenberg Research Facility, their only light the few stars that managed to squeak out from between the darker clouds. Even the moon had chosen not to appear tonight; possibly a new moon a little later on, Gibbs thought, but not enough to help with this evening's outing. Smirnakov had planned it well but then again, Gibbs reflected, counter-intelligence agents and black market gun runners tended to plan things well. If they didn't, they didn't last in their chosen profession.

"Nothing, Gibbs." Ziva likewise dropped her own set of binoculars from her eyes. "There is no campfire such we observed on the previous occasion, no dancing, no chanting. I don't understand it."

"But they're here." That much was obvious. There was a half dozen vehicles parked along the roadside at the edge of the property. "Where are they?" Gibbs thought a moment more. "Commander Lord," he said, addressing the third member of their party, "do you have any infra-reds in your gear?"

"One set, I think."

"Go get 'em."

"Yes, sir."

Ziva narrowed her eyes, a look that was wasted in the dark. "Gibbs?"

Gibbs knew what she was asking. "She knows that we're after her, Ziva. She's sending out chaff."

"Chaff—? Oh," Ziva realized what Gibbs was telling her. "Ah; the members of her 'circle' are her cover."

"Yup. How much you want to bet that she's got 'em 'meditating' in separate spots, with no light?"

Ziva nodded. "We will need to hunt down each one and remove them individually from the vicinity."

"And quietly, Ziva. Too much noise, and she'll vamoose."

Ziva agreed, having deciphered the meaning of 'vamoose' from the context of Gibbs' statement. "There are ten acres of land here, Gibbs, and many caves to hide in. There will be no way to trap her, no way to encircle the area."

"Exactly. Plus, if she has one of those suits, she can just put it on and slip away without us ever seeing her."

Lord returned with the infra-red goggles, handed them over to Gibbs without a word.

It took less than a moment. "First one sited, a quarter mile away, at roughly one o'clock relative to us. Ziva, bring him or her in." He looked further. "Number two, at ten o'clock, probably about half a mile. Commander Lord, do the honors. Just keep it quiet." He glanced over at the commander. "You've got your people stationed by the cars?"

"Yes, sir."

"Keep 'em there. I don't want your people roaming around quite yet. It'll muck up the landscape. Keep 'em by the vehicles, and have 'em monitor the civvies that we drag off the lot." Gibbs indicated the infra-red goggles. "Once we pull out all the innocent civilian chaff, what's left will be the people with the suits. Go to it, people."

* * *

McGee had never seen the stealth suit in action, but Ziva's description had been intense. The Israeli agent's eyes had lit up, telling them how the big marine—Franks, it was—had simply vanished in the low light of the training room. Ziva had known the man was coming for her, had been watching and listening, and still hadn't been able to detect his approach. It was pretty obvious that Ziva wanted one of those stealth suits for herself, and it was equally as obvious that the United States government was going to be rather stingy in handing them out.

Now McGee had possession of one. It wasn't big enough to cover his frame—apparently Dr. Dovely hadn't wanted to waste the time and energy making the prototype big enough for the average man. Something just to cover the basics and enough to prove her point was what she had been after—but it would have to do. His hands and feet stuck out of the ends, and he felt damn silly wearing this silky and tight-fitting cat suit that made him look like a giant sperm in an old Woody Allen movie. He knew that that was what he looked like, because DiNozzo, shortly before passing out again, had told him so. _Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid To Ask)_ was the movie, and DiNozzo had chuckled, told him the name and the reference, and then quietly put his head back down and closed his eyes.

McGee couldn't help himself; he had to take one last moment to check the pulse at Tony's throat. It was there, but fast and faint. Tony didn't object to McGee's actions, and that scared him more than anything else. DiNozzo always razzed McGee. It was in the man's nature; if he didn't, then there was something wrong.

There was a _big_ something wrong right now.

Time to see if he could fix it.

Time to see if this popular set of pajamas lived up to its reputation.

McGee took off his shoes. He needed the quiet more than he needed the protection against the sharp rocks. One sound, one slip that sent a shower of rocks cascading, and it would be all over. He couldn't do anything about his hands and feet protruding beyond the cuffs of the garment, but he could pull the hood up and over his head. There was a patch for the eyes, he discovered, a band that was covered more lightly and permitted him to see but, he hoped, not be seen.

It would have to do. McGee crept to the edge of the pocket cave where he and DiNozzo had been dumped, peering around the rim to try to locate the two that had hijacked the NCIS agents.

The main cave where Beck and Aiello were sitting was almost as dark as the pocket that McGee had just left, with the sole light a small campfire in the center ringed with stones to prevent it from scooting out of control. The pair had chosen to conserve the battery on the flashlight that stood on its end nearby, and they both were seated on convenient rocks doubling as un-upholstered easy chairs. Aiello had a bottle of something in his hand, either water or vodka. It was clear, and finding out what the liquid was would contribute nothing to McGee's escape attempt. McGee ignored it.

Would this work? McGee took a deep breath, and stepped out. He froze, his exposed hands tucked beneath his armpits to shield them from view. He waited, paused, watched to see if they noticed him.

They didn't. He took another step. Aiello took another swig from his bottle, and didn't offer it to Beck. McGee inched forward, watching the pair wait, sticking to the shadows and hugging the wall, keeping his back against the rock and unexposed.

Almost out.

"Think we ought to check on our guests?"

"You can if you want to, sergeant. Don't think they're going anywhere."

"They're pretty quiet."

"Probably working on the ropes. That'll keep 'em busy."

"Guess you're right. When is the bitch going to get here? I'd rather not spend all night here."

"She should be here any moment. As soon as she ditches the others in that little group, she can get here, take possession of the suit and the two NCIS guys, and we're all out of here."

"Swiss bank accounts, right?"

"Yours and mine, Aiello. You figure on how you're going to get out of the country?"

"Canadian border, to start. You?"

"Expensive passport. I've always wanted to travel, and not to Iraq." Short burst of laughter. "Little short on tourist attractions."

"Long on sand," Aiello agreed.

It didn't matter. McGee was through the cave where the two men waited, and almost safe. He exposed his hands once more, needing them to crawl forward and grab hold of rocks to slither out toward the surface. It had taken twenty minutes to get to the cavern where Beck and Aiello had set up shop, but that was dragging an injured comrade with him. McGee resolved to see if he could cut that time in half.

Priority one: get the prototype suit to someone safe, like senior NCIS Agent Gibbs. Priority two: bring back help for Tony DiNozzo.

McGee climbed toward the surface of the cave.

* * *

The MPs had the straightforward job: guarding the members of the 'Wood Sprite' Circle once they were—vociferously!—removed from their place of worship. There were six of them so far: Ziva had removed three, frog-marching them back to where the cars sat with the MPs, Gibbs two, and Lt. Cmdr. Lord, in charge of the MPs, had accounted for one.

Gibbs approached the group, Lord behind him. "How many of you are there?" he demanded.

One—a tall and stringy man with bad skin—lifted his chin. "You are defiling our grove. You have no right to do this!"

Gibbs chose not to close his eyes in an unheard prayer for patience. "This is national security," he said calmly. If any of his team had been within earshot, they could have told the little 'sprites' that crossing Gibbs when he used that tone of voice was simply asking for trouble. "If you don't believe me, then perhaps you'll believe the judge when he sentences you to five years for obstruction."

"Judge?" the man squeaked. He tried to grow a spine. "What about separation of church and state?"

Another's nerve broke, either from fear or good sense; Gibbs didn't care. "There were six of us," she said tremulously. "I think."

"You _think?_ " Gibbs himself thought she was wrong. They already had six, and the head chanter was missing.

"Seven."

"Nine."

"Eight." The answers spilled out of the cowed group.

 _Gawd._ Now Gibbs did close his eyes. "Which is it?"

It took too long, and it took someone counting the cars that the group had arrived in as well as determining who was environmentally conscious by car-pooling, and the answer turned out to be seven, best as everyone could figure. Gibbs scowled at the group. He really hoped that they were right, because there were three more indistinct red blobs dotting the infra-red landscape. There ought to have been five: Smirnakov and four stealth-suited sergeants, all of whom Gibbs wanted in his possession. At this moment it didn't matter if the stealth squad was innocent; the suits were not in direct United States Government control, and that made the situation dangerous. Who deserved brig time was something that could get figured out later, after the crisis was over.

Five people: Smirnakov and four sergeants. Only three were showing up on the proverbial radar, but Gibbs knew better than to count on that. Those sergeants were well-trained, and knew that the suits wouldn't protect them from heat sensors. Quite likely they'd figured out a few fox holes to drop themselves into periodically to avoid being detected. Gibbs stared out onto the landscapes, watching those red blobs.

The red blobs were getting bigger, getting man-shaped. Gibbs furrowed his brows; what were they doing? At his side, he could feel Ziva David asking the very same question of herself.

Then he smiled grimly. He knew _exactly_ what they were doing, and was more than happy to allow them to do it.

"Watch yourselves, people," he cautioned the MPs. "We're about to have visitors."

Three heat shivers, barely able to be seen in the night, quivered into the clearing. Gibbs blinked. Even knowing that they were there, he could still hardly see them. Only by concentrating on the outline of each heat wave could he distinguish where they were. "Hands in the air, gentlemen," he told the three.

"Mind if we pull off the hoods, sir?"

"Just do it slowly, sergeant." Gibbs pointed his handgun at the disembodied voice. "You first."

The quivering in the air reached up unseen hands—and a head appeared, floating in the night like a bad outtake from _GhostBusters._ Gibbs listened briefly for a quote from DiNozzo before reminding himself that the man was missing, along with another member of Gibbs' team. "Mind telling me what you're doing out here, sergeant?" he drawled.

Sgt. Franks tried to shrug sheepishly, but the non-verbal communication was wasted on those who couldn't see it. "Seemed like we were getting roped into a conspiracy, sir," he offered. "Not one of us wanted to be on trial for treason. We kind of thought that we needed to figure out what was going on before it got that far."

"Didn't trust me and mine to find out the truth, sergeant?" Gibbs' voice was mild even if the words were scathing.

Franks winced, and kept his mouth shut.

Gibbs gave orders. "Take off the suits, gentlemen, and hand them over to Commander Lord. Until further notice, you will not be using them for practice or any other purpose. You're going to be sitting on the ground with a few MPs empowered to shoot you if you try to go anywhere. Any problem with that?"

"No, sir."

"Good." He looked them over, noting that there were only three. "Where's Aiello?"

The three exchanged glances. "Couldn't find him," Medford muttered. "That surprise you? Sir?" he tacked on belatedly.

"The three of you seemed to find each other fairly easily," Ziva pointed out. "What makes Sgt. Aiello different?"

None of the three had an answer for her.

"Well?" Gibbs prodded.

Medford turned defiant eyes on him. "It wasn't so long ago that you were breathing down my neck, _sir,_ " he spat. "You thought I was a traitor to my country, _sir._ "

"Just going where the evidence took me, sergeant," Gibbs said, unmoved. "That evidence pointed me at you and Mrs. Rickover. You got a problem with me finding out you're innocent?"

Medford flushed. "No, sir."

Gibbs pushed. "You got a problem turning in a traitor, sergeant?"

The night covered up the brighter red. "No, sir."

"You worried that Aiello might not be as upstanding as the rest of you?"

"He's a good man, sir," Franks pushed in. "We're a team."

"Then help me prove his innocence," Gibbs told him. "If he's innocent, he's got nothing to fear." Gibbs applied the screws. "Right now, I've got a missing suit, and a missing prototype suit. I need to get both back, and that's my priority. I don't want anyone getting hurt. If you've got an idea on how to pull Aiello in, I'd like to hear it."

"We could go out—"

"The three of you are still suspects," Gibbs said flatly. "You're staying here. Find another way."

"Agent Gibbs!" Lord broke in, still scanning the countryside with the infra-red glasses. "There's another suit! He's running!"

"Which direction?" Gibbs snapped around, his gun in his hand, Ziva too ready to fire.

"At a right angle to our location, sir! Moving fast!"

No time to think, no time for a considered decision. It was either Sgt. Aiello—who could be either innocent or guilty, no way to tell at this moment—or it could be someone wearing the prototype suit. Gibbs squinted, trying to see the running figure in the dark night. He stared, trying to make the figure come clear—yes! It was the prototype suit. Gibbs could almost see the hands pumping along. He couldn't tell how large the figure was, if it matched that of Smirnakov, and at the moment it didn't matter: the suit was headed _away_ from them. The suit was not headed toward a place where Gibbs could take possession of it. The suit was trying to escape. _Not on my watch._

The figure was almost impossible to see, dipping and weaving in the dim light, the hands flashing in and out of visibility. Gibbs sighted on the running body, feeling more than see Ziva take up the same stance, anticipating where the heat shivers were headed. This was vital; the suspect _couldn't_ be allowed to escape. He exhaled, the gun settling onto the target, squeezing the trigger. Ziva's own shot went off at the same instant—maybe a micro-second sooner or later, neither one would be able to say for certain—and the figure jerked and stumbled, falling to the ground.

No choice. No better options—the new technology couldn't be allowed to fall into foreign hands. National Security depended on it. They _couldn't_ allow Smirnakov to get her hands on it. It was a righteous shoot.

 _Secure the suspect._ Ziva dashed ahead, taking advantage of knees that hadn't been through two wars. She kicked the rock away from the suspect's bare hand, squatting to grab hold of the figure, Gibbs behind her with his handgun trained on the suspect. Even in the dim light of dusk they could see the blood leaking out from a gut wound. The other bullet had hit the shoulder.

"Who are you?" Gibbs demanded harshly.

Ziva ripped the mask off of the suspect. Hazel eyes, pain-filled and bewildered, looked up at Gibbs from his spot on the ground.

The 'suspect' coughed, blood springing to his lips. "If you wanted to fire me, boss, you could have just told me…"

The eyes closed.

Gibbs went cold, but it didn't slow him down. "I need an ambulance over here!"

* * *

The nightmares would come later, of that Leroy Jethro Gibbs was certain. They would be filled with Timothy McGee's blood, gushing from the hole in his gut and the matching one in his shoulder. Which hole had Gibbs put into the junior agent? Didn't matter. Wasn't going to matter one iota when it came time to make that dreaded walk up the path to the front door to the next of kin…

Gibbs saw it all, saw every move that the hospital folk made. It was his responsibility: chain of evidence, national security. He saw the attendants cut the gray prototype stealth suit off of McGee, watched them wad it up into a ball and stick it into a little plastic bag with handles on it. They handed it over to him so that he could keep track of the all important prototype suit. The thing was shredded beyond belief, the back of the suit gone. Torn off in a fight? Maybe. There would be more investigation to find out just what McGee had been through in the last six hours.

Which was more important: the suit or Timothy McGee? National security said: the suit. No question about it: the prototype suit. At the moment, Gibbs wasn't so sure.

There was blood on Gibbs' hands. He hadn't washed it off; there hadn't been any opportunity. He had to watch the body, for chain of evidence.

No, not _body._ McGee wasn't dead yet. If there was any justice in the world, then the term wouldn't be _body_. It would be _patient_. McGee would survive, would live through the surgery that was going to save his life, save him from the awful mistake that his team leader and his team partner had just done to him.

McGee had to live. There was another member of Gibbs' team out there, one with an irritating habit of goofing off, one with a habit of bringing up old movies, both good and bad, until everyone wanted to shut him up. McGee would know where DiNozzo was, whether the man was dead or alive. If McGee died, he wouldn't be able to tell Gibbs where DiNozzo was. That was the other reason that Gibbs was in the room with the emergency personnel, watching them dip their gloved hands into McGee's flesh where no one's hands ought to be. Gibbs needed to be here in case McGee woke up in the middle of all of this horror, ready to whisper something into Gibbs' ear as to where DiNozzo was with the fourth stealth suit. After all, that was National Security. Mustn't forget National Security.

What the hell was McGee doing, running across the field like that? How had he gotten hold of the prototype suit? Where was DiNozzo? Gibbs shoved the questions down, retreated into a cold, hard-assed marine gunnery sergeant. Feelings would have to wait for a better time—say, in his nightmares.

"Jethro." Ducky slipped into the too small cubicle where everyone was working. "Oh, my."

"Ducky…" Gibbs was having a hard time finding the words.

The doctor working on the limp body looked up in annoyance. "You'll have to leave. We need room to work." He glared at Gibbs as well, not accustomed to having non-medical personnel where they could hear what tended to come out of the doctor's mouth.

Gibbs ignored him. "Ducky… Take care of him, Ducky." Grief-stricken eyes said more than the words, giving lie to his emotionless act.

"My skills with the living are a bit rusty, Jethro. I think I'll let this fine young man do the honors, if you don't mind." Ducky moved Gibbs toward the exit. "I'll stay with Timothy, Jethro. You're needed elsewhere."

"He may know where DiNozzo is, Ducky." Gibbs was still having a hard time with talking.

"If he wakes up, I'll be there, Jethro," Ducky promised. "Go. Ziva needs you. Tony needs you." He turned to the doctor whose fingers were deep inside torn flesh. "I'm Dr. Mallard. Have you located the bullet?"

"Best we can tell, it's lodged somewhere in the large colon, probably the transverse. I don't think it nicked the spleen. Are you expecting to gown up?" Suspiciously.

"Heavens, no, young man. My days in the operatory are now confined to a morgue. But I _will_ be staying with Agent McGee. National Security matters, you know."

The doctor grunted, far from mollified.

Gibbs let himself out, feeling as though he was running out on his agent.

 _Just one more thought for my nightmares…_

* * *

"Gibbs?" Ziva was the first to his car.

Gibbs pulled on the parking brake harder than he needed to. "Alive. Not looking good. Ducky's with him." He deliberately put the subject aside. There was nothing he could do for McGee, much as it killed him to admit it. _Friendly fire. Not very friendly._

Ziva understood his reaction, and shared it. She too spoke no further of the matter, as if simply admitting the possibility would make the unthinkable happen. "The prototype suit?"

"Abby has it. She'll put it in Evidence, as soon as she finishes processing it." Testing the blood, Gibbs meant. Most of it would be McGee's. Identifying where the bullets went through the fabric to puncture frail flesh, deciding which one of them put a bullet in McGee's gut and which one hit the shoulder. "What do you have here? Any movement?" _Has DiNozzo come out wearing the fourth suit, waiting to get shot like I shot McGee?_

"Nothing, Gibbs." Ziva gestured to Lt. Cmdr. Lord. "The commander has obtained another set of night goggles from the Heisenberg Facility. He and I have been traversing the terrain, and not located anyone else. We have not seen Sgt. Aiello, nor Smirnakov. I do not believe they have left the area," she added thoughtfully. "Captain Beck's vehicle was found on the far side of this property. And, Gibbs," she added, "we found a small quantity of blood in the back seat, near the floor."

"Beck's?"

"Unknown. I have called for Forensics to process the car and give the evidence to Abby. There are no other vehicles nearby, and Ms. Smirnakov's own car is here with the others of her 'circle'. Her transportation options appear to be limited."

"Unless she decides to hoof it out of here," Gibbs muttered under his breath.

Ziva heard him anyway. "I doubt she will choose to do that, Gibbs. The nearest area of civilization is several miles away, which means a great deal of time for us to discover her whereabouts. She will know that we are looking for her, and will attempt to spot her as she walked away. Where I her, I would remain in my present hiding place until reasonably certain that you had left."

Gibbs scanned the territory through the midnight darkness. "We need to find her, Ziva. Her and the suit—and DiNozzo. And Beck—she may have kidnapped him, too."

"I agree, Gibbs. How do we find them?"

"There has to be something there…" Gibbs' voice trailed off. "Let's go."

"Gibbs?"

"You and me, Ziva. Lord, you stay here, make sure these people don't go anywhere," Gibbs ordered.

"Yes, sir. How long should I give you?"

Gibbs glanced at his watch. "Let's make it an hour. If we don't report back by then, call your commanding office and let him get involved."

"Yes, sir. And if I hear gunfire?"

"Then just do what seems to be the best thing, Commander. And don't think twice."

* * *

Another spot that would end up haunting his dreams. The darkness covered up most of the blood on the ground, what little hadn't already sunk into the dirt, and footprints of ambulance personnel had trampled the rest into oblivion. Gibbs tried to tell himself that he no longer saw McGee's crumpled body on the ground, leaking blood and turning the dirt below into dark red mud. He would see it in his nightmares, but that wouldn't be happening for another twenty four hours. Gibbs could wait.

That wasn't what Gibbs was after. He was betting that Tim McGee had been running flat out, no attempt to cover his tracks. Why should he? Speed would have of the essence, the need to escape overpowering all else. McGee would be under the same directive as the rest of them: National Security. Get the prototype suit back into the hands of the United States Government.

 _You did that, Tim. It's safe now, in Abby's lab, surrounded by a foot of concrete with a few dozen security types at the various entrances. The prototype isn't going anywhere._

Neither are you. Not for a while. Hear that, Tim? Don't go anywhere. Not without my permission.

Gibbs wrenched his thoughts back to the problem at hand. He had another agent out there: Tony DiNozzo, and Gibbs was _damned_ if he was going to bring DiNozzo back in the same condition. One member of his team down was already one too many.

"East," he finally said. "McGee was running approximately due east." He squatted, looking for the broken tree branches and fronds that would mark the agent's flight. "This way."

It was tough going, trying to find the trail marks in the dark. Gibbs pulled out the small flashlight from his gear, acknowledging when Ziva did the same once she knew what he was looking for. The marks themselves were easy to read, once found. They made steady progress.

A cave. The opening wasn't large, but it was big enough to admit a good-sized man. Gibbs played the beam of light around the rocky entrance, and stopped on something dark. He bent to examine it. "Blood."

Ziva agreed with his observation. "There was blood in Beck's car."

Guns came out. Gibbs pulled back a moment to report their position to Commander Lord, just in case, then he returned to the cave opening. He looked at Ziva. "Be very careful."

* * *

It was dark inside, and bumping shins and foreheads became routine, but neither Gibbs nor Ziva complained or even tried to use their flashlights. Sound would be the factor that drew them forward, slow step by slow step, always testing the footing so that dropping into an unseen crevice wouldn't be the end of the expedition.

Then: there it was. Sound. A voice, deep and smooth, answered by a higher one. At this distance Gibbs couldn't identify it, not for a court of law, but there was no doubt in his mind to whom the voices belonged. From the squeeze of her hand on his arm, Ziva agreed with him.

Inch forward. Listen, make sure that they weren't heard. Listen again. _Wonder if putting the safety back on the gun would prevent him from squeezing too hard as he crept toward them or be suicidal?_ Gibbs chose to leave the safety off.

The voices came in more clearly.

"How long are we going to wait here?" Gibbs recognized that voice clearly, and with dismay: Captain Beck. How the hell had someone so high up in rank descended so low? Didn't matter. Let the Navy shrinks figure out what every man's price was. Gibbs only hoped that he would never learn his own.

Well, that ended that little mystery. Beck was as guilty as sin. He was in a position to take the prototype suit and not get caught. The nonsense with Medford and Rickover's widow? Misdirection. A red herring, to throw everyone off so that Beck could make a clean getaway. Gibbs made a side promise to find out if Beck's own wife had anything to do with her husband's crimes. Probably not; there was a good chance that Beck intended to start a new life in somewhere without a lot of red tape to get through. With the money he could expect to make off of this deal, he'd probably be able to afford to keep three or four mistresses where ever he ended up.

Not if Gibbs had anything to say about it. Right now Gibbs wanted to look forward to NCIS Agent Timothy McGee testifying at Beck's court-martial. _Hear that, McGee? You've got a court date. Dying would put a serious crimp in that plan._

"We're going to wait for as long as necessary," came the response, and Gibbs recognized the former 'Dawnwind's' voice. "They're out there. Never doubt that. They're looking for us."

"Which means that we get out of here as fast as we can, before they find us," Beck objected.

"No, sir." Gibbs started; that was not Beck. It was the fourth sergeant, the missing one: Aiello. There'd be an interrogation, but Gibbs suspected that it was Aiello who had killed both Commander Rickover and Dr. Dovely. A man in a stealth suit would have been able to come up from behind the commander, intent on seeing what his wife was up to, and kill him without breaking a sweat. A man trained in many forms of combat would undoubtedly know about a cestus, would use that tool to put distracting claw marks onto a dead corpse to try to throw off the pursuit. A man with Aiello's training would be able to put a bullet through a researcher's head any time he wanted.

The whole plot became clear: Smirnakov developed this little pseudo-religious circle of hers as a cover to get close to the Heisenberg Research Facility, close enough for someone to slip across the border of the research grounds onto private property. Then the subterfuge began: they would blame Commander Rickover for the theft, so they threw 'evidence' in the way. Mrs. Rickover received flowers, ostensibly from Sgt. Medford, and Aiello made certain that Rickover was aware of it. Beck knew of Rickover's inadequate attempts to start a family, which was what prompted the pair to select Medford over either Franks or Rubrovitch. To a man concerned over his virility, Rickover would be an easy target. Smirnakov, for her part, pulled in Mrs. Rickover and supplied her with plenty of innuendo so that it would appear that Medford was indeed attempting to seduce her—more misdirection. Then, while everyone was pursuing Medford and Mrs. Rickover and getting more and more confused and angry, Beck and Aiello would quietly make off with the suits, sell them to wannabe arms dealer Marina Smirnakov, and live happily ever after.

Or so they thought. Gibbs had other plans.

He'd heard three voices, but he hadn't heard DiNozzo's. Was the man there? Was he dead? Gibbs forced himself to acknowledge the possibility. At the moment, it didn't matter. Aiello was there, which meant that the fourth and last suit was there. All the others were in Gibbs' control.

Aiello continued. "Gibbs will still be looking for us. He'll look all through the night and into morning. He won't stop until the end of the day, when it gets dark again. He won't like it, but his superiors will force him to stop looking, start thinking in terms of damage control instead of recovery."

"He's right, Captain Beck," Smirnakov agreed. "That is the way that a man like Special Agent Gibbs thinks. Once it is dark again, then we can move out."

No use in waiting. No benefit to listening to them work out Gibbs' next move. They had him pegged; looking for twenty four hours was exactly what Gibbs would do, search until forced to stop by the director of NCIS. Then the CIA would undoubtedly take over, looking world-wide for evidence that a major buy was taking place for some very high-priced pajamas.

No use in waiting. He touched Ziva's arm as a signal.

She nodded. She was ready.

Gibbs stepped forward, Ziva moving up and out to provide greater coverage. "NCIS. Freeze."

Gibbs, in his heart of heart, hoped that they would resist. That they would go for their own weapons, so that he would have an excuse to shoot them where they stood, in retribution for what they had done. Bodies were dead: Rickover, never to have a child. Dovely, never again to create something that mankind had never seen before.

 _McGee. DiNozzo._

They gave him his wish.

Beck went down, Ziva's bullet through his leg, screeching.

Smirnakov was made of sterner stuff. She shot back at Ziva, ducking behind a set of rocks as cover.

Aiello was Gibbs' problem. After a single shot, Aiello vanished into the invisibility of the stealth suit that he wore. In the flickering campfire light in the cavern, he was impossible to see—and Gibbs didn't even try.

Aiello had the advantage. Back in the training room, Franks had demonstrated his skill on Ziva, a younger and more agile combatant than Gibbs was, for all of his years in the Marines. Gibbs regularly worked out, but the seasons were taking their toll. Aiello would be just as well-trained, just as lethal. Just as deadly.

That didn't matter at the moment. Adrenalin was there. Muscles went into play, made strong by years of working out, years of practice in self-defense. Gibbs couldn't see the enemy. Gibbs didn't _need_ to see the enemy. He _knew_ where he was.

Block with the forearm. Follow that with a strike to the nose—blocked. Defend his own mid-section with a downward block, watch out for the sweep. Gibbs knew all of these moves better than he knew his own home. He didn't have time to watch out for Ziva, and did anyway—the Israeli agent was trading blows with the gun runner.

 _Wouldn't DiNozzo like to see this chick fight? Where the hell was he?_

Failed to anticipate a blow to his ear. Gibbs staggered back, brains rattled. Couldn't have that; he got his arm up just in time to deflect a strike from the other side.

Needed to end this. Aiello was half Gibbs' age, had a lot more endurance on his side. All Aiello needed to do was to keep raining the blows, letting Gibbs absorb the punishment, while Smirnakov kept Ziva busy. Once Gibbs was down, it would be two on one. Ziva wouldn't stand a chance, not against a trained killer like Aiello, not even as good as she was. And DiNozzo was still missing…

Take a chance. Strike out, wrong tactic but one that Aiello—trained in the same moves—wouldn't expect because it was wrong.

 _Connect._

Aiello whoofed, the air punched out of his gut. Gibbs almost but not quite saw the heat shimmer on the ground. He stopped down with a heavy boot, intent on crushing the invisible belly against the rocks. _Marquis of Queensbury be damned. This was dead serious._

Damage done. Gibbs ripped the hood off of Aiello's head so that he could see the man he was fighting with. Blood had welled up on the man's lip, and Gibbs was savagely glad to be the author of the injury. Ignoring the man's pain, he flipped him over and pulled the handcuffs from his back pocket.

Ziva…

Hair mussed and with a rapidly swelling black eye, Ziva was still very satisfied. She yanked Marina Smirnakov to her feet, the gun runner's hands already secure in Ziva's own cuffs. She said something vicious in what Gibbs presumed was Hebrew. It didn't sound like Russian, or Ukrainian. Polish? Didn't matter; Smirnakov understood what it meant, and didn't like it.

Ziva looked at the third remaining member of the conspiracy. Beck was clutching his leg where Ziva's bullet had gone straight through, wincing in pain. "I have no handcuffs for him," she complained.

* * *

Scrubbing took a lot longer when one was involved with surgery on a living body, Ducky reflected. His own, in his morgue, tended toward the 'cleaning up afterward' since those bodies that he routinely dealt with were no longer in any shape to worry about infection. Odd, but Dr. Mallard felt superfluous in here. His role was that of observer, in case Special Agent McGee awakened with pertinent information.

Ducky couldn't decide which he hoped would happen. A clue from Timothy could save Tony's life, but the same action would put Timothy in excruciating pain. Continued unconsciousness would save Timothy from that occurrence, but endanger Tony.

"Got both lines wide open," the anesthesiologist announced. "If you're going to go in, Joe, I'm gonna suggest you do it sooner than later. I'm only getting sixty palp. He's tachy."

"He must have a bleeder somewhere inside," Surgeon Joe decided. "You want to do the cut down? A couple of units of whole blood should be on their way up from the blood bank."

"I'm liking that idea. Tom, hang a liter of Ringer's, will you? I'll hook it up as soon as I'm in."

"One liter of surgeon's holy water, coming right up," said the circulating nurse.

* * *

"Where is he?" Gibbs demanded.

None of the three tried to pretend that they didn't know what Gibbs was talking about.

Beck glared defiantly. "They're gone."

"DiNozzo is still missing, Beck." Gibbs didn't give him his title. He didn't deserve it any longer. The court martial would take it away in the legal sense, but Gibbs was taking it away now. "Where is he?"

"They're both gone," Beck insisted. "I checked on them an hour ago, and they were both missing. They must have gotten loose, and gone further into the cave."

"Not possible," Ziva said flatly. "There is no place for DiNozzo to go. He was injured, unable to move far." She leaned over Smirnakov. "Where is he?"

Smirnakov almost spat at her. "If I knew, I would have dragged him out and used him as a hostage."

"I looked at where you said you put him. He's not there," Gibbs said. "McGee got loose by using the prototype suit and slipping by under your nose." It didn't help to push that in their faces, but Gibbs was beyond that.

"I don't know where he is," Aiello said evenly. "I didn't know he was missing until Beck checked and reported it an hour ago."

This couldn't go on. The three would continue to profess ignorance while DiNozzo, if he was still alive, slowly died from starvation, dehydration, his wounds, or any combination of the three.

Gibbs came to a decision. "Officer David, escort Sergeant Aiello and Ms. Smirnakov to the staging area. I will follow with Beck in a moment or two."

"Gibbs?" Ziva's face showed her puzzlement.

"We will transfer them to the brig as soon as possible," Gibbs continued. There wasn't lick of emotion in his voice. "You have your orders, Officer David."

"Yes, Gibbs." Now she understood only too well. She prodded her captives. "Move."

"But…" Beck's voice trailed off as he realized that he was alone with Special Agent Gibbs. "You'll have to help me out of here, Gibbs. I've been shot."

"I'm aware of that, Beck. Where's Special Agent DiNozzo?"

"I don't know."

Gibbs took another step closer, towering over the shorter officer. "Where is he, Beck?" Quietly. Almost in a whisper.

"I don't know! I swear, I don't know!"

Gibbs dropped his voice even further. "There are ways to kill a man, Beck; ways that don't leave any evidence." He paused, to give his words the full effect. "Ways that might happen when someone is trying to escape."

"I don't know," Beck howled. "I swear to you, Gibbs, I don't know! He just wasn't there! Both of them—they vanished! One could have taken the prototype, but there was only one suit! I swear I don't know where he is!" Tears ran down his cheeks, staining rivulets through the cave dust across his skin.

Broken. And Gibbs still didn't know where his missing agent was.

* * *

Dark.

Thirsty.

Leg hurting worse than that time he fell down the stairs when he was ten years old. His old man had cursed him out something fierce, all the way to the hospital. The details were mercifully dim after all these years.

Hot. Burning up.

Dark and thirsty.

* * *

There was a large chunk of him missing, right in the center of him. That was all right with Tim, because that part was sending out pain signals that would have sent him writhing back down into unconsciousness if it was still attached to him.

Everything hurt. His throat hurt, raw and sore as though he'd swallowed something entirely too large. There was a lick of fire in his shoulder and he couldn't seem to move to ease the positioning of it. Headache? That was the most minor of his worries. No, actually, his belly was the least, because someone had chopped out the hurting part of it.

Plastic smell. Cold air, smelling of that same plastic, along with other odors that he couldn't identify—no, wait. He could identify that one, because it was coming up along his poor abused throat and into his mouth and it tasted vile—

"Over on his side," someone said with a female voice. "Let's get him suctioned out."

The next few moments were a merciful blur. He wondered if he'd passed out again, decided that he probably had because he couldn't remember anything more until he was flat on his back again.

"Timothy. Timothy?"

He knew that voice. He knew that accent, didn't like to go visit it in the morgue. He tried to lick his lips to moisten them, preparatory to answering. Didn't help; his tongue was as dry as sandpaper.

The voice seemed to understand that, for something wet dripped across his lips.

"Timothy. Where is Tony?"

 _Oh. Right. Tony._ Tim's thought drifted away…so tired…

"Timothy," the voice urged, "where is Tony? Where is he?"

Even scrunching up his face to think hurt. Tim didn't think he wanted to try any more.

The voice wouldn't stop. "Timothy, where is Tony? What happened to him?"

"Shot," Tim whispered peevishly. He coughed, and that hurt worst of all. That chunk of his stomach which wasn't there? It was back. And it hurt. It hurt like…like…Tim couldn't come up with an adequate comparison, which hurt even worse because he was supposed to be a novelist, wasn't he? He was supposed to be able to come with words that would fit any occasion.

All DiNozzo's fault. The man kept ribbing him, and making jokes at Tim's expense. Serve DiNozzo right if McGee couldn't remember what he did with the man to save his life. Hah—save his life, only to throw it away. DiNozzo would never let him live it down. Which didn't make sense, because DiNozzo wouldn't be alive, but if Timmy himself didn't live through this experience then undoubtedly DiNozzo would track him down in the underworld and make his death a living hell…

"Timothy, where is Tony?"

Had to make the voice go away, so that he could sleep. "Crate."

"Jethro said that they looked in the crates. Tony wasn't there. Where did you put him, Timothy?"

Tim smiled. He'd put one over on Beck, and Aiello, and the woman. He'd fooled them. They hadn't found Tony. _Gotcha, Tony. Safe, because of me. Make a joke out of that, why don't you?_ "Behind the crate."

Then a spate of coughing seized him, sent him doubling over until something pushed into the IV put him out of his misery.

* * *

"We looked there, Abby—" Gibbs broke off.

"No, Gibbs. The _back_ of the prototype suit is missing. It wasn't torn off, it was _cut_ off. McGee or Tony _cut_ it off. They used it for something, Gibbs!"

Gibbs stood stock still, stunned. He _knew._ He _knew_ what McGee had done to protect his partner. He _knew_ where DiNozzo was. "Right. Good work, Abby." He didn't bother to look for Ziva; she was already following him back into the cave.

"Where?"

" _Behind_ the crates."

"We looked there."

"Not hard enough, Ziva. Not hard enough."

* * *

Gibbs all but flung the crates out of the way. Someone could come by later to clean up the mess, to haul the crates out and see what else Beck was willing to sell to a wannabe gun runner. At the moment, Gibbs didn't care and neither did the smaller woman who was matching him crate for crate.

No talking. Breath was reserved for inhaling of oxygen, the better for strength to fling the crates aside. Last one, hauled to the left, exposing a blank gray stone wall, a smooth surface. Nothing there.

"Gibbs…" Ziva panted.

"Here." Gibbs didn't trust his sight. This was stealth technology. Vision had been confounded.

Not touch. His sense of feeling was intact, and still useful against the stealth technology. He slid his fingers along the surface, touching the cold stone of the cave, searching for something that didn't feel like rock. There it was, tucked into a crevice, the fabric covering a small pocket of cave, the pocket just large enough to stuff in a limp body. Gibbs ripped the tattered gray cloth from its precarious perch, thrusting it at Ziva—it was National Security, after all—and reaching in. Praying.

"Gibbs?" Ready to scream.

"He's alive."

* * *

Welcome hands reached down to help haul DiNozzo's unconscious form to the surface, up and out of the cave where just a mere two hours ago three criminals had been removed from their lair and sent to a Federal holding tank. Gibbs himself crawled out, reaching down a hand to help Ziva out before wiping some of the dirt and grime from his face.

It had been a long trek out. DiNozzo wouldn't remember it, wouldn't remember being slung between two sets of agents and dragged along the rocky floor of the cavern. That would be a blessing; some of the sounds that came out of DiNozzo's throat would be added to Gibbs' nightmares, along with McGee's blood. No doubt about it; Gibbs wouldn't be sleeping particularly well for the next few weeks. Neither would DiNozzo or McGee.

Good deal. He'd take insomnia any day in exchange for the sight of his two agents, back at work, awaiting the moment that Gibbs would amble up behind and 'whack 'em upside the head' for whatever they shouldn't be doing. Gibbs flopped onto the ground, all in, watching the MPs wrestle the agent's limp body onto a stretcher. No one could get a vehicle this far into the brush; they'd be toting the wounded man out. Straps went over him, to make sure that he wouldn't fall off and add a broken arm to the mess.

Gibbs roused himself, needed to make sure that this wasn't all for nothing. The throat—that was the most reliable pulse. Hot skin, rapid heartbeat—but still beating.

Cough. "Boss?"

"DiNozzo." Gibbs didn't know whether to be grateful that the man was awake—or horrified.

Another cough. Wince. "McGee?"

"He's okay, Tony." A softer voice than usual. "He's okay."

A softer voice than usual, with a prayer.

* * *

"Ooooh, Tony! McGee!" Abby wailed, not knowing which one to turn to first. She all but dumped the two tin cans of flowers onto the table beside each of them. "You're all right? Tell me you're okay!" She grabbed Tony in a robust hug, squeezing a grunt out of him.

"Just…fine…" Tony gasped, trying to catch his breath.

"McGee?" Not to be outdone, Abby went for the other man.

"No, Abby! My shoulder! Abby!"

"Oooh, McGee! I'm sorry! I forgot! Are you all right?"

"They will be, Abby." Gibbs followed her in, trailed by Ziva and Ducky. "Give 'em a chance." He set a basket of fruit onto DiNozzo's table. "From all of us."

The hospital room was bright with sunshine pouring in without regard for temperature control. The walls were an off-shade of yellow, or perhaps beige, but something that dirt wouldn't show up on unless the paint was flecked away—which it was. A portrait of a vase of flowers did little to enliven the area. Both white linen-clad beds were occupied, both with multiple plastic tubings dripping down from hooks on the ceiling. Antiseptic odors stained the air.

DiNozzo beamed, and cast a jaundiced eye at McGee. "Thanks, boss. Guys."

McGee frowned, eyeing the fruit. "I don't get anything?"

"Not yet, Timothy," Ducky put in. "I don't expect that you'll be eating anything more inviting than ice chips for the next few days."

"Wonderful," McGee grumbled, and turned to a better topic. "You got 'em all, right? All three of them? That wasn't just a dream that I had?"

"Yes, McGee," Ziva told him. "All three of them, and all of the stealth technology recovered. Including the piece that you used to hide Tony," she added mischievously. "There was a great deal of discussion about that."

"You should have heard the guy they sent out to replace old Beck-aroonies," Abby said gleefully. She put on a deep voice. "'I can't believe that an NCIS agent would be so foolish as to tear apart a top secret, highly valuable piece of technology into shreds! I'll see him brought up on charges for this!'" She grinned. "I wish I'd been there to see it. Ziva said that Gibbs ripped into them like a cloud of Africanized honey bees."

"Sent them home with their tails between their legs," Ziva confirmed, beaming with good humor.

Tony stared at her. "You're awfully chipper. I thought you missed your concert."

"She's got a date," Abby chirped.

"A date?" Tony looked at Abby, then back at Ziva. "A date?"

"What's wrong with that, Tony? I'll have you know that I have had many dates. You simply don't know about them, nor do you need to know about them."

"With one of the sergeants," Abby confirmed. "Tonight. I think it was the cute one."

"Which one was the cute one?" McGee wanted to know.

"Wouldn't you like to know? Actually, it's not a date," Ziva clarified. "The sergeant has offered to give me another demonstration of the stealth technology, and I have accepted his invitation. Although we also expect to dine later," she added, watching both men from the corner of her eye.

"What does it matter, McGee?" Abby jumped in. "I mean, you're stuck in here. It's not as though you could ask her out, not for a while at least. I mean, if anybody here ought to be taking Ziva out, it's Tony."

"Me?"

"Yes, you, DiNozzo. She saved your life. She pulled you out of the cave, and got all dirty and sweaty doing it."

"Heaven forbid that I should become dirty or sweaty," Ziva murmured.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter, 'cause you both are stuck here for another couple of days. Right, Ducky?"

"Actually, my dear—"

"Tony, Ducky says that you'll be getting out like maybe tomorrow. So I figure that I can take you to my place, 'cause there isn't anybody at your place to take care of you, and then when McGee comes home a couple of days after that, I can put him on the sofa, and you in the coffin, or maybe him on the bed and you on the sofa and me in the coffin—"

"Abby?"

"Yes, McGee?"

"I'm not really into dark places for a little while, and your place is, well, a little less lit than others…"

"Are you saying that I live in a cave, McGee?"

"No, it's just that I'm kinda—"

"Coffins give me the willies, Abbs," Tony put in firmly. "Small tight places, things like that. Maybe next time."

"Et tu, Tony? Doesn't anybody want to come stay with me?"

McGee carefully turned the discussion onto a safer topic. "What about the technology, boss? What's going to happen to the project now that Dr. Dovely is dead?"

Gibbs shrugged. "It'll keep going, McGee. Turns out that Dovely's assistant has a pretty good handle on the research. Higher up's think that she'll be able to take over, and the Pentagon's put in an order for another eight suits. Sergeants Franks, Medford, and Rubrovitch will each be heading up their own team for covert surveillance techniques." Another shrug. "Mrs. Rickover is on her way to a good recovery from this affair. With the insurance policy that Aiello and Smirnakov took out on her behalf, Elaine Rickover had enough to buy a business and then some. She chose to buy out Smirnakov's cover bookstore." He smiled. "Somehow, I don't think Marina Smirnakov quite expected it to turn out that way."

"Here that, elf-lord?" Tony would have liked to lean over to push it into McGee's face, but falling out of bed seemed like a very real option if he tried it. "There's another elf-lady in the making. You could offer her some pointers."

"Nope," Abby told them. "You're too late, McGee. Sergeant Medford really _was_ interested in Elaine Rickover. Wasn't going to do anything while she was married to his commanding officer but…" Abby let her voice trail off suggestively.

"Yes, it seems as though Captain Beck merely took advantage of a situation that might never have occurred had he not conceived of the idea to betray his country for mere money," Ducky mused. "A very tangled web indeed." He glanced at his watch. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, we must depart if we are not to be late."

"Late?" McGee perked up his head. "Late for what?"

"Dinner, McGee," Gibbs said. "You know: the thing that you aren't getting right now. We have an invitation."

"An invitation?" Tony was equally as dismayed.

"Yes, DiNozzo," Gibbs told him. "The elf-lady's new business is having a Grand Opening to celebrate the ownership. Since we're the ones who cleared her husband's good name, we're all invited."

"Even you two," Ziva added mischievously. "Too bad you can't come." She grinned. "Even Mrs. Rickover has a date: Sgt. Medford."

"Wonderful," Tony grouched. "I get shot in the line of duty, and all I get is a basket of fruit. You guys get dinner and an evening out."

"What are you complaining about, DiNozzo? McGee doesn't even get that. Oh, look," Gibbs observed. "Here comes blue jello, with McGee's name on it." He turned. "Come along, children. Suppertime."

* * *

McGee leaned against the wall of the elevator in his apartment building, grateful not be taking the stairs. Those stairs frequently substituted for his work-out during the week, telling himself that it would make up for any day that he didn't have the time for proper exercise.

Well, he hadn't worked out today and didn't intend to for the next week at least. His arm was still in its comforting sling and there was a matching white bandage wrapped around his belly. He still didn't know which agent had put which bullet where, but he supposed that he could get Abby to tell him eventually. Not that he would ever bring it up in conversation. Try to guilt Gibbs into something? Not a chance. And Ziva? She'd give him one of her patented _want to die sooner or later?_ looks and turn back to whatever she chose to ignore him with.

Not now. Right now, even though Abby had picked him up at the hospital to bring him home, asking her questions was something that was going to have to wait for another, more opportune time. Right now he was regretting being on his feet, regretting that he'd left the hospital, regretting that he was in the elevator with no place to sit down…

"Tim?"

Blood roared in his ears, and vision was getting dim. "Abby…"

He felt her take him under his good arm. Damn, but his knees were turning to day old aspic jelly, and Abby, strong as she was, was never going to be able to keep him on his feet, much less get him into his apartment. How embarrassing. _Damn…_

"Gibbs!" she yelled.

Why was Abby calling for Gibbs? Gibbs wasn't here. This was McGee's apartment building, on the floor where McGee's apartment was, and he desperately wanted to flop onto his sofa in his living room before he ended up collapsed on the dirty linoleum floor in the corridor outside his apartment that building maintenance never seemed capable of keeping clean.

"Gibbs!" she yelled again, more desperately.

Damn. He was going down. Vision was already gone, unable to see as if everything was covered in stealth suit technology. The linoleum floor suddenly seemed cool and inviting—and close.

Then there were strong hands under his good arm, replacing Abby's smaller ones. Someone else grabbed the belt around his waist, hoisting him up on the other side.

Next thing he knew, he was on his own sofa, his head down and his feet sticking up in the air. Vision was coming back. He could see a cluster of faces staring at him, the closest one that of Dr. Ducky Mallard, who was dutifully checking McGee's pulse.

"Just a little too much excitement, Jethro," Ducky diagnosed. "That, and a little too much activity."

"I'm guessing that yelling 'surprise' isn't recommended here for the resident elf-lord." Tony DiNozzo looked wryly down at his fellow NCIS agent, leaning heavily on a pair of crutches. "You okay, Probie?"

McGee blinked. "Yeah," he lied. He blinked again. "What are you doing here?" He tried to look around, stopped it when his head tried to spin again, not to mention Ducky's far from demanding hand keeping him down. "What are you all doing here?"

"Delivering fruit, McGee," Gibbs told him. "Not one of DiNozzo's better ideas." He gestured to the room.

The fruit was not in a plain basket. It wasn't even in two baskets. It was scattered all around the room, waiting for someone to have to go to the trouble of picking it up and depositing it in a central location. Clearly this was a DiNozzo type practical joke.

"Joke's on you, Tony," Gibbs said. "Get started."

"Me, boss? I'm on crutches."

"It wasn't any of us that threw the fruit all around." Gibbs pointed out. "Besides, the rest of us have to go back to work. You and McGee are off for the next few days. Have a good time." He waggled his finger at them. "Abby'll be back to tuck the two of you in later tonight. You're going to be roomies, here in this nice bright apartment, until one or both of you are ready to get back to work where you belong." He led the others out.

Abby stuck her nose back in. "Clean it up, DiNozzo. This was your idea. I don't want to see any mess when I get back here, or I'm shipping my own personal coffin here to Tim's place just for you. Got it?"

Tony sighed. "Got it."

"Good. Now rest. Both of you." Abby stuck out her tongue at them before running off to catch the elevator. "Gibbs! Ziva! Ducky! Wait up!" could be heard dashing down the hall.

Tony looked at McGee. "You up to helping?"

McGee didn't even try to sit up, let alone stand. "No."

"Maybe later?"

"No."

"Didn't think so." Tony sighed. And got to work, picking up the fruit.

The end.


End file.
